Of Jews and Gentiles
by Sashile
Summary: Casefic. After investigating an attack on a Jewish lieutenant and her non-Jewish boyfriend, Ziva discovers a pattern of similar deaths. An undercover mission with Tony as her boyfriend leads to some dramatic discoveries. No OCs, lots of Tiva.
1. Opening

_Disclaimer: Yes, we know. I own nothing. I did invent a few characters, but they're just bit players, so I doubt I'll get much profit from them. And since I'm posting this on a free website that doesn't get any profit to me anyway, it's a moot point, but for some reason, we're still supposed to say it. So, to reiterate, I do not own NCIS or any of the normal NCIS cast._

_Summary: It's a Tiva fic, but also a casefic. When a Jewish lieutenant and her non-Jewish boyfriend are attacked, the team is ready to write it off as a random attack, but Ziva isn't convinced that everything is as simple as it seems. When she discovers an questionable pattern of deaths, she convinces Gibbs that it's time to go undercover, with Tony as her non-Jewish boyfriend. Through the course of the mission, they discover things that surprise everyone--about the case, and about themselves._

_A/N: Just to warn you, I'm leaving the country in a couple of weeks (no, seriously--I'm doing a tropical medicine rotation in Papua New Guinea), and I'll have patchy internet access, which probably won't include time to post on FFN. So, when I leave you hanging for a few weeks, don't think I abandoned you. I'll be back. The story will be completed. I promise._

_Anyway, here's the story._

**Of Jews and Gentiles**

* * *

Lt. Hannah Sault glared at the green block numbers on the microwave with a new intensity before turning that glare to the front door, willing it to open. "Damn it, Chris, where are you?" she muttered through clenched teeth. She specifically told him to be home at—

Her line of thought was interrupted by that very door opening. Instead of being relieved, her eyes opened in disbelief. Disappointed disbelief. "Chris!" she exclaimed. "Where the _hell_ have you been? And you're still in your dive clothes! We have to leave in less than half—"

The rest of her words were muffled by the presence of his lips on hers. When he stepped back, there was a smirk on his face. "Damn it, Chris, if you got my dress dirty, I swear—"

"Your dress looks amazing, babe," he interrupted, grinning at the look on her face after calling her 'babe', which he knew she hated. "Although there's not nearly enough leg showing." His expression became serious. "Sorry I'm late. We had to take Hall to Bethesda."

"What?" she asked, her previous anger forgotten—or at least, put on the backburner for a moment. "Is this something that's going to be coming to my attention on Monday?" Sault was a personnel and logistics officer for the Office of the Director of Ocean Engineering; Lt. Christopher Shaw was a diving operations officer for the Navy Experiment Diving Unit.

Shaw shrugged a shoulder and shook his head slightly, stepping around Sault to reach for the refrigerator. "It wasn't a big deal," he said lightly. "The idiot went on a rec dive yesterday with Nitrox and 'forgot' to tell us about it. A couple of hours in the decompression chamber should help his memory for next time." He turned to her, a beer in hand.

Her previous frustration came back when she saw that brown bottle. "No beer!" she scolded, taking the bottle from him. "You need to get upstairs and get in the shower _now_. If we're not on the road in twenty minutes, we won't make it before sunset, and—"

"And the world as we know it ends," he finished for her with a grin. He raised his hands defensively as she narrowed her hazel eyes to a glare. "Okay!" he exclaimed. "I'm going, I'm going! I didn't realize this was such a big deal for you."

"It's a big deal for my dad," she said with a sigh. "Which makes it a big deal for me."

"And that makes it a big deal for me," he finished. "I'm sorry, Hannah, I really am. I'll hurry."

After giving herself a moment to take a deep breath, Sault followed her boyfriend of three years down the very short hallway to the bedroom, where she could hear the shower running through the open bathroom door. She took a seat on the bed and sighed. "I'm sorry," she finally called out, her voice tired.

"You don't need to apologize, Hannah," he replied, his voice distorted by the water and bathroom fan. "And I really am sorry I'm late. But I thought this thing was tomorrow?"

"It's Ben's first service as a _bar mitzvah_, not a 'thing'," she snapped before sighing again. She pinched the bridge of her nose. _Today, of all days?_ "And it's both—services tonight and tomorrow morning. But even if it were just tomorrow, we'd have to leave at the same time tonight."

The water stopped in the bathroom. That was one nice thing about dating a sailor—he could always be counted on to take very short showers. "Because there's no driving on the Sabbath," he recited as he stepped out of the bathroom, the towel wrapped around his waist. "Poor kid, having to get up there reading that passage twice."

"Well, technically, he's reciting, not reading," she said absently, too distracted by her worry of getting out in time to appreciate the show she was getting as he dried off. "And it's the same section of the Torah. It's not like he had to memorize twice as much."

"I guess that's a good point," Shaw replied. "Did you have to go through that for your _bat mitzvah_?"

"Chris, we're Orthodox. _Bat mitzvah_ celebrations are a Reform invention." Seeing the grin on his face, she sighed. "But you knew that."

He nodded. "Yup. Why am I wearing this?"

"Because that shirt goes well with those pants, which match your black shoes," she said, pointing at the various items of clothing.

"Why can't I wear my brown shoes?"

"Because they're leather," she said with a sigh. "Seriously, Chris, how many times do I need to go over this?"

He shot her a quick, apologetic grin. "How many times do I need to apologize in one afternoon?" Seeing that she wasn't amused, his smile dropped as he buttoned his shirt. "I can drive, Hannah. Then you won't get in trouble if we're caught in traffic or something."

"_You_ shouldn't be driving after sunset, either, remember?" she pointed out. "But, thanks," she conceded.

He leaned over and kissed the end of her nose. "When are we heading back?"

"Shabbat ends when the first three stars are visible on Saturday evening," she said. "If we're not completely sick of my family by then, we can stick around for dinner. Or we can leave as soon as that third star comes out."

"What if it's cloudy?"

"Chris!"

"Oh, come on, you knew that was coming." He grinned again as he headed for the kitchen and grabbed the keys. "You got the gift?" Sault held up the wrapped book. "Isn't this whole thing about becoming a man? Seriously, Hannah, there are better gifts to get a man than a book of Hebrew proverbs."

"Okay, Chris, he's thirteen. And _we're _getting him the writings of the first president of Israel in Hebrew. It's a good gift from the responsible older cousin and daughter of the rabbi to be giving." She rolled her eyes as she stepped into the car. "And I think Ben's eighteen-year-old brother can handle buying the porn."

He smiled in response as they began the almost four hour drive south to Rabbi Sault's synagogue, and Lt. Sault finally began to feel herself relax. They passed the first part of the trip with light small-talk before Sault sighed. "I'm sorry I was so short with you," she said. "I just heard this afternoon. One of my Annapolis company-mates died in Afghanistan yesterday."

He reached over and squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry."

She squeezed back before releasing his hand so he could drive. "Sometimes, life sucks when all your friends are in the military."

He nodded absently in agreement. "Of all the weekends, huh? I was thinking about tomorrow night. Maybe we should skip out as soon as the stars come out, have a nice quiet dinner to ourselves." He gave a sarcastic smile. "After all, we need to get up to Philadelphia by 0830 Sunday morning so we can watch the proud godparents help baptize my niece."

She groaned, having completely forgotten about the baptism. "It's gonna be a fun weekend," she said dryly. She saw the look on Shaw's face and sighed. It was her turn to reach for his hand in reassurance. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I know that you were thinking—"

"Brian and Laska are a good choice for godparents," he interrupted. "They're responsible, with stable jobs that _don't_ involve people shooting at them, they're married, they're—"

"Catholic," she finished with a sigh.

"Hey," he said quickly. "This has _nothing_ to do with you. You know my family loves you. If they could replace me with you, they would in a heartbeat. Mike and Molly talked to me about it. They weren't so sure having a godfather who takes 'How To Be Jewish 101' is the best thing for Colleen."

"Which you're taking because of me," she pointed out with a sigh. "Besides, you're easily up to 201 by now."

"Thanks," he said with a grin. He glanced over at her before his eyes returned to the road. "Don't worry, Hannah. We'll have our revenge. We won't ask them to be our kids' godparents, either."

"Jews don't have godparents, Chris," she said automatically before she frowned. "And _kids_?"

"What, you think I suggested that we take those couple's classes through your synagogue to get you in bed?" He glanced over at her again. "You know I'm in this for the long-haul."

"As I recall, you got me in bed _long_ before the classes." They grinned at each other. "I love you, Chris."

"Love you too, Hannah," he replied, bringing her hand up to his mouth to kiss the base of her ring finger, a move that gave her the familiar fluttering in the pit of her stomach. They had talked vaguely about marriage, but hadn't said anything official, not until they could figure out what to do about the family situation—and while his large Roman Catholic family was one thing, the biggest issue was her Orthodox Jewish one.

"Hey, Chris, I have an idea—." She never got the chance to finish that statement, interrupted by the sharp report of the gunshot that sent the car careening off the road.


	2. Chapter 1

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 1**

_A/N: Wow, thanks for the reviews! Please, keep them coming. I feel I need to make a couple of points based on some of your questions/comments:_

_1) I'm not Jewish, so I apologize to anyone who is if I get anything in the course of this story blatantly wrong. My knowledge comes mostly from a few Judaism courses from my days as a religious studies minor in college, the textbooks from those courses, observing a few Jewish friends, and sadly enough, Wikipedia._

_2) This story has nothing to do with my last fic, Deep Lacerations. For those of you eagerly awaiting a sequel to that story, it is coming, but probably not for a few months (as my trip overseas will likely impede the writing process). For those of you who haven't read that one, check it out (yes, I am advertising for myself)._

_Okay, that's it for now. I'll try to explain further issues as they come up. In the meantime, enjoy the story._

* * *

NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo narrowed his eyes as he watched his partner. Mossad Officer Ziva David had been staring out the large picture windows for the last five minutes, her expression thoughtful. "Ziva?" he finally asked.

"It is Friday," she said, her gaze still focused on the darkening DC skyline. "Do you think Gibbs would allow me to leave to celebrate the Sabbath?"

For some people, it would have been a legitimate question, but DiNozzo laughed; his partner was not one of those people. "You've been working here for almost four years, Ziva. How many times has _that_ worked for you?" He gave her another grin before returning his attention to his computer screen. "Besides, it's not one of the High Holidays."

"What?" she asked, her head snapping toward him. "How do you know about—"

"Because you've been my partner for almost four years," he said with a grin. "And the only times you take personal days are Yom Kippur and…I forget the other one."

"Rosh Hashanah," she said with a sigh. "I was not aware that you were paying such close attention."

"I always pay attention to you, Ziva," he said, extending the syllables of her name with a grin. She rolled her eyes as she returned her attention to the file in front of her.

Less than five minutes had passed after the exchange when Supervisory Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs strode into the bullpen. He looked around for a moment, seeing what appeared to be two of his agents diligently at work. "Where's McGee?"

"Lab," DiNozzo informed him, not bothering to look up. Gibbs frowned.

"Doing _what_?"

"Well, since we don't have a case right now, Boss, I have no idea," DiNozzo replied, finally looking up. "You know, since we don't have a case-"

"No, DiNozzo," Gibbs interrupted, finally taking a seat at his own desk. David thought about her options for a minute before deciding it was worth a chance.

"It is almost sunset, Gibbs. I was wondering—"

"Wasn't aware it was Yom Kippur already, David," Gibbs interrupted before he looked up at her. "Hope you didn't have big plans for the weekend. We're on call."

"Just because it is not one of the High Holy Days—"

"That _might_ have worked on me if you had gone to temple more than twice a year in the last four years."

"Synagogue, Gibbs," she corrected. "The Temple was in Jerusalem. It was destroyed two thousand years ago."

"Makes no difference to me, David. Get back to work."

She frowned. "Does the American Civil Liberties Union not protect against religious persecution?"

"You're not American," he replied, not missing a beat. Glancing up at her, he continued, "And do I _look_ like somebody who would care about your civil liberties? Work, Ziva."

"On what, Gibbs?" she asked in exasperation. "We do not have a case. We have finished our paperwork. You have us looking at—"

"There's always something to do, Officer David," he said, gesturing toward the far wall. "We have a Most Wanted wall. Find _them_."

"Find NCIS's most wanted?" she echoed. "In one evening? Gibbs, even you—." She was interrupted by the ringing of his desk phone. Muttering something in Hebrew under her breath, she made her way back to her desk, ignoring the thoughtful expression on her partner's face.

"DiNozzo, gas the truck," Gibbs said as he hung up the phone, tossing the keys to his senior field agent. "David, call McGee and Ducky. We got a case."

"What is it, Boss?" DiNozzo asked as he slammed the clip into his Sig Sauer.

"Car ran off I-95," Gibbs replied, also grabbing his gear. DiNozzo frowned.

"Since when did we investigate car accidents, Boss?"

"Since the car belonged to a Navy lieutenant and the driver was found with a bullet hole in his forehead."

* * *

Patrolman Pete Drigg glanced up from his digital camera as a dark blue sedan slowed to a stop fifty yards away. He frowned; it was clearly marked off as an accident scene. "Excuse me!" he called out to the silver-haired man who stepped out of the sedan. "This is an accident scene! You can't stop here."

"You Virginia State Patrol?" the man asked as he headed toward Drigg, pulling a dark NCIS cap over his head as he walked. Drigg swallowed subtly when he saw that logo; he had never worked with NCIS before, and had received mixed reviews from his colleagues who had, but if this was a chance to get rid of a case from his already full case-load, he was jumping on it.

"Patrolman Pete Drigg," he said with a nod, dropping the camera around his neck as he extended his hand.

"NCIS, Special Agent Gibbs," the agent replied. He glanced back at the highway behind him. "My team should be getting here soon."

Sure enough, a large white and red truck pulled up a few minutes later, and three agents poured out, arguing amongst themselves. Gibbs seemed to sigh in frustration before making introductions. "Special Agents DiNozzo and McGee, and Officer David. Our ME should be here shortly."

"Your ME?"

Gibbs frowned. "You said there was a fatality?"

"Oh!" Drigg exclaimed. "Yeah. I didn't realize you would be bringing your own ME."

The one Gibbs pointed out as DiNozzo groaned. "Don't tell me you moved the body."

"No, that's not it," Drigg assured him. "Well, the paramedics reached in to confirm that he had no pulse, but that was it. It's just, well, I called our ME for a pick-up."

"Un-call them," Gibbs remarked with a shrug. "What've you got?"

"Car's registered to a Navy Lieutenant Hannah Sault," Drigg began.

"Figures," DiNozzo commented, pulling a camera out of a dark bag and snapping off pictures with little regard for what he was capturing. "It's a chick car."

"Tony, you think everything but your Mustang is a 'chick car'." Officer David commented with a roll of her eyes. Drigg's eyebrows raised; not only was she very attractive, even with her hair braided and pulled back and covered in NCIS gear, but that accent was hot.

"Not true," DiNozzo shot back. "Probie's Porsche is definitely _not_ a chick car."

"Thank you, Tony," the last of the agents finally spoke.

"But a bright blue Volkswagen Jetta?" DiNozzo continued. "Come on, Ziva, even you have to admit that's a bit chick-ish. Maybe even more chick-ish than your Mini, if that's possible. Wait. I thought you said the driver was a 'he'?"

"The driver was," Drigg confirmed, pulling his eyes away from Officer David. "_The passenger_ was still alive when we arrived. She left by ambulance a bit ago."

"Was that Lt. Sault?" Gibbs again.

"According to her ID," Drigg nodded. "No ID on the driver yet. He probably has a wallet in his pocket, but we didn't want to disturb the scene. Uh, we got the 911 call at about 1745, caller reported blue Volkswagen Jetta ran off the road into a utility pole."

"We can see that," DiNozzo muttered. He snapped a picture of Officer David, who glared at him in response.

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs shouted. "Focus on the _crime scene _photos! Ziva, get what you can from the car and around it before we get it back to NCIS. McGee, road."

"Road, Boss?" Gibbs glared. "Right. The road."

"I arrived at the scene at 1755," Drigg continued, checking his notes when Special Agent Gibbs turned back to him. "The passenger was alive and saying something, but it didn't make any sense. I don't know if it was even English. I saw the bullet hole in the driver's head and didn't even bother to check. The ambulance got here at 1759. They confirmed that the driver was dead, got the passenger out, loaded her up, and took off at 1822."

"Where'd they take her?"

"Uh, there's a trauma center a couple of minutes from here."

"She'll have to be transferred to Bethesda when she's stable."

Driggs shrugged. "That's between you and the docs at the hospital."

Gibbs nodded. "Any witnesses say anything about a gunshot?"

"Nobody heard anything. Not too surprising; it's a fairly busy interstate. Listen, Agent Gibbs, I already have a full case-load—"

"We'll take it off your hands," Gibbs said with a nod before walking off toward the car.

"Uh, right," Driggs muttered a minute later. Realizing that Gibbs was done with him, he headed back to his patrol car, filled out his reports, and pulled away.


	3. Chapter 2

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 2**

* * *

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Special Agent Tony DiNozzo joked as his partner stepped behind her desk. She looked up at him and frowned.

"I have been gone for less than four hours, Tony," Officer Ziva David replied. Both agents had stayed in the office past 0300, when Ziva muttered something about getting some sleep in her own bed. Tony had left a couple of minutes later, and only returned a few minutes before his partner. He also knew he had probably gotten the most sleep of the two of them; she had likely still woken up for her usual 0500 run.

"I don't remember telling anyone they could go home for any amount of time," Special Agent Gibbs commented as he strode into the squad room. "What've you got?"

"Driver was positively ID'd as Navy Lieutenant Christopher Shaw," Special Agent Tim McGee jumped in first, activating the plasma screen. "He's a, uh, diving operations officer for the Navy Experiment Diving Unit here at the Navy Yard. He had a dive yesterday morning with his team, which by all reports went well until they got out of the water, at which point a Petty Officer Terrence Hall was taken to Bethesda for the hyperbaric chamber."

"The what?" DiNozzo asked with a frown.

"Uh, decompression chamber, for the bends. From scuba diving. The closest one is at Bethesda. Uh, he drove Petty Officer Hall to the hospital, filled out the paperwork, arranged for another member of the team to drive Hall back to base after his treatments, and then headed home. He was scheduled to have the afternoon off."

"Why was he driving Lt. Sault's car?"

"Lt. Hannah Sault is a personnel and logistics officer for the Office of the Director of Ocean Engineering," DiNozzo stepped in. "According to their files, Shaw and Sault lived in the same address, an apartment in Georgetown. Impressive zip code for two Navy lieutenants. According to Petty Officer Jodee Glover, one of the clerks in the personnel office, Shaw and Sault had been dating for over three years and living together for almost two years, and it wasn't a secret by any means. They were also each other's emergency contact and medical power of attorney."

"So they were living together, could make decisions for each other… Why didn't they just get married?" McGee asked with a frown.

"Because he was smart," Gibbs commented.

"Because he was not Jewish," David contradicted. Everyone turned to her, eyebrows raised.

"How do you know _she_ was Jewish?" McGee asked.

"Because her father is a rabbi," DiNozzo interjected. "I was getting to that before McQuestion-Everything interrupted. Captain Daniel Sault, US Navy Reserve chaplain. He was active duty for about fifteen years, went into the reserves about twenty years ago. Lt. Sault also has two older brothers, Asher and Jacob, both previous enlisted in the Navy at eighteen. Very Israeli of them." He shot a quick grin at his partner, who only shrugged. "Asher served four years as a chaplain's assistant before heading off to Yeshiva University to follow in his father's footsteps. Jacob was a corpsman. He apparently liked the Navy a bit more than his older brother, because he went on to major in biomedical engineering MIT on a NROTC scholarship and is now finishing medical school on a Navy scholarship at The Ohio State University College of Medicine. Buckeyes!"

McGee and David rolled their eyes at their partner's enthusiastic support of his alma mater. "Okay, so _she's_ Jewish. How do we know _he_ wasn't?"

Ziva rose from her chair and picked up the remote for the plasma screen. Instantly, a catalog of Tony's crime scene photos from the night before appeared. She selected a picture. "This was found on the floor in the passenger seat," she explained.

"A wrapped book?" DiNozzo asked with a frown. "What does that have to do with anything? And why is it wrapped upside down?"

"It is not," she informed him. "Hebrew is written from right to left. The binding is on the right. The name on the envelope, Benjamin, is written in Hebrew." All three men leaned forward slightly, as if they couldn't tell from where they were that it wasn't in English. "She was on her way to give a present on the Sabbath, most likely for a _bar mitzvah_. They were headed south, so they were probably going to Rabbi Sault's—the elder Rabbi Sault's—synagogue in Norfolk."

"We knew _she_ was Jewish, Ziva," DiNozzo interrupted with a frown. "What does this have to do with Shaw?"

"He was driving," she reminded him. "They were likely running late and it is a long drive to Norfolk. She would have been concerned about driving after the sun went down. Driving is one of the _melachot_—prohibited activities on the Sabbath. I would guess that Lt. Shaw volunteered to drive so she would not have to."

"That doesn't mean he's not Jewish," McGee pointed out. "After all, _you_ drive on Saturday all the time. And even if he's not Jewish, that can't be the reason why they didn't get married. A lot of Jews marry non-Jews."

"Yes," David agreed. "In fact, it is estimated that half of married Jews in the United States are married to non-Jews. However, Lt. Sault is Orthodox. She knows Hebrew and avoids the _melachah_. Her father and brother are both in the rabbinate. She would want a traditional Jewish wedding, which she could only have if her husband were also Jewish."

Gibbs smirked slightly, not able to resist the opportunity to tease one of his agents. "Sounds like you've given this some thought, David."

"As you have pointed out so well, Gibbs, I am not nearly as observant as Lt. Sault," Ziva shot back. She opened her mouth to say something further, but was interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone. She glanced at the display and frowned. "I must take this." DiNozzo, standing closest to the window she walked toward, barely heard her "_Shalom_," as she answered the phone.

* * *

Tony DiNozzo leaned against the back of the stairs silently, observing his partner. Normally he wouldn't be able to sneak up on her like this, and normally he wouldn't be eavesdropping so obviously on her conversations—he didn't have a death wish, after all—but she was so engrossed in her conversation that she didn't even notice his arrival. And the conversation was entirely in rapid-fire Hebrew, which they both knew that he knew about three words of, so he didn't feel bad about listening.

"_Shalom, Abba_," she said, ending the conversation and snapping her phone closed. At some point in her conversation, she had taken a seat on the floor, leaning against the wall. Her phone now all but forgotten in her hand, she sighed deeply, leaning her head against the wall, her eyes closed.

"So what does Director David need now?" DiNozzo asked lightly, making his presence known. Ziva snapped her head toward him, her eyes narrowed in a glare. She held that expression for several long seconds before looking away.

"It was a social call," she finally answered.

"The director of Mossad makes social calls?"

"He does to his daughter," she snapped.

"On the Sabbath?"

"Speaking on the phone is not prohibited," she said. "Besides, the sun has set in Israel. It is no longer Shabbat."

"But still," DiNozzo said, finally sliding down the wall to sit next to his partner. "He had to have known you were at work."

"No," Ziva said, her voice sounding almost resigned. "He thought I was observing Shabbat at home."

He looked at her strangely, wondering for the millionth time what exactly her relationship was with her father. "He must think you're much more observant than you are."

"No," she said, shaking her head. She looked away, staring through the window without seeing. "My father and I have never been very good about observing Shabbat, or many other traditions, but Tali…" Her voice trailed off as she remembered her younger sister. "Tali decided when she was about ten that she would do better. When she was a _bat mitzvah_, she prepared a study on a section of the Torah, which she read at the synagogue. In Orthodox congregations, it is not expected for a _bat mitzvah_ to do anything to mark the occassion, but Tali was a bit of an," she searched for the term. "An overachiever." She glanced over at him quickly to gauge his reaction before looking away again. "She died eleven years ago Wednesday. Last week, my father and I discussed this. It is traditional to observe the anniversary of a loved one's death, but the middle of the week is never a good time for the Director of Mossad to be taking off. He was planning on saying _Kaddish_ for her during the service today instead. He asked that I ask my rabbi to do the same."

"That's why you wanted to leave yesterday."

"Yes."

He was quiet for a moment as he studied his partner. "If you said something to Gibbs, he would have let you—"

"I know," she interrupted. He nodded slightly, understanding. Talking about anything personal went against Ziva's very nature; she wouldn't have wanted to discuss her sister's death or her promise to her father with Gibbs. He suspected that the only reason she mentioned Tali to him was because she never expected to have another conversation with him.

"Well, I'm sure it's not too late," he finally said. "If you want, you can go now and I'll cover for you—"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "I will help with the case. It _is_ too late, anyway. Services at my synagogue are over."

"Okay," he said, debating what to tell her. She looked tired and defeated, something he had never seen from Ziva before. Sure, he had seen her cry, and he had seen her physically and mentally exhausted from literally days of constant movement and no sleep, but defeated? Never. He was tempted to tell her that he could handle it and she should get home and get some rest and observe what was left of the Sabbath. Of course, if he did that, she'd probably kill him with that cell phone she was still fidgeting with. A cell phone? That was hardly a lethal weapon. Of course, this is a woman who can kill with office supplies. She could kill with her bare hands; he's seen her do it—.

"Tony!" she exclaimed, breaking his reverie. "_What_ are you thinking?"

"Picturing you naked," he replied without a beat, knowing that making it a joke was the only way to set her at ease as he shot her a wide grin. Sure enough, she rolled her eyes and turned away. "What?" he asked, still grinning. "Don't worry, it's all authentic. I still have these great memories—"

"Hold onto those memories, Tony," she interrupted, patting him on the cheek, that teasing glint in her eyes. "Because that is the only way you will see me naked again. What do you need me to do?"

"Well, you can start by taking off your shirt—"

"With _the case_, Tony!"

He gave her a quick grin before becoming serious again. "Gibbs wanted me and McGee to go over to Sault and Shaw's workplace and interview whoever's around. He wants you to go to Bethesda to talk to Sault. Since I still owed you for the last time I made you deal with the sobbing girlfriend—"

"No," she interrupted. "I will go to Bethesda and talk to Lt. Sault." He opened his mouth to object, but she held up a hand to stop him. "I understand what she is going through right now, Tony. You do not. You have not shown yourself to be very comforting when you do not understand." She rose from the floor and headed for her desk without looking back.


	4. Chapter 3

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 3**

* * *

"I am looking for Lt. Hannah Sault," Officer Ziva David announced, her credentials open as she spoke to the nurse.

The young-looking ensign barely glanced at the badge as she pointed down the hall. "Room 501," she said, already turning back to her work. David frowned at her for a second.

"_Toda_," she muttered sarcastically under her breath as she headed in the direction the nurse indicated.

Lt. Hannah Sault was in a small private room on the thoracic surgery floor, a window with a view of the next building providing the only light. Ziva studied the still figure for a moment, taking in the monitors and tubes that wound their way under Sault's blankets, the dark bruises around both of her eyes, the thick bandage wrapped around her head and tangled in her rich brown hair. "_Shabbat Shalom_," she said softly when she realized the lieutenant had been watching her in return.

"_Shabbat Shalom_," Sault replied automatically, her voice sounding dry. She cleared her throat before speaking again. "If you're the hospital chaplain… No offense, but I'm Orthodox, and I'd rather not have a female rabbi."

Ziva smiled slightly before reaching for her credentials again. "There is no need to explain," she said. "I am also Orthodox. I am not a rabbi. Officer Ziva David, NCIS."

"You're investigating the accident," Sault stated, nodding her head toward the empty chair. "I'm sorry you have to work on Saturday."

"It is not your fault," David said as she sat. "Somebody has to do it. And I am not as adherent to tradition as some."

To her surprise, Sault smiled. "I know the feeling," she said. "My father is a rabbi, and I can still count the number of times I observed Shabbat and avoided the _melachah_ in the last year on one hand." Her smile faded into a frown. "That's why I wasn't driving. My cousin Ben is a _bar mitzvah_ today. The services and celebration were at my father's synagogue in Norfolk. Chris was late coming home to his dive…" Her voice trailed off for a moment before she continued. "He wanted to drive so I wouldn't have to turn off the car in case we didn't make it before sunset. How is Chris? Nobody will tell me anything."

Ziva debated what to do. Technically, Lt. Sault wasn't family, which meant that she had no legal obligation to tell the personnel officer about Shaw's status, but at the same time, this was the man she loved, lived with, perhaps wanted to marry. "I am sorry, Lieutenant," she finally said. "Lt. Shaw died in the accident."

Sault's eyes filled with tears as she looked away. "_Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam, dayan ha-emet_," she murmured, giving a quick prayer for the dead. "That's what I was afraid of," she managed, "but it still hurts to actually hear it."

"I know," Ziva said softly. Sault turned back to her and nodded slightly. "Lieutenant, I know it is difficult—"

"Hannah," Sault interrupted. "Please. And ask whatever you need." She paused, her expression one of sudden realization. "You don't think it was an accident, do you?"

Ziva ignored the question, deciding that Sault didn't need to hear about the bullet hole in her boyfriend's skull. "Do you or Lt. Shaw have any enemies?"

"Enemies? God, no. We aren't interesting enough to have enemies." The personnel officer shook her head. "Chris was hard on his men, because he had to be. There's no room for error when you're a couple of hundred feet under water, and they knew that. But he was fair, and he didn't play games with them—he didn't taunt them with threats of poor reviews or anything like that. I would know; I see those evals. He did give low evaluations when called for, and a couple of divers have been transferred from his unit because of it, but it was never personal. They knew that. A few of them even thanked him for being honest before they left."

"What about you?"

Again, she shook her head. "Personnel and logistics officers aren't usually noticed," she pointed out. "Those divers who were transferred had my name on the personnel files, but unless they knew me through Chris, I was just another faceless name in a large stack of paper. It means about as much to them as the Secretary of the Treasury's signature on a dollar bill."

David nodded slightly as she pretended to take notes, trying to formulate her next question. "Lt. Shaw was not Jewish, no?"

"No," Sault replied softly. "And if you're asking if that was a problem, the answer is, yes, it was, but just for us. If anyone on the outside even _noticed_, they did a damned good job of hiding it." She took a deep breath and blinked back tears. "I'm the daughter and sister of Orthodox Jewish rabbis, Officer David. There are rabbis all over my family tree. My brother Asher was really into genealogy in high school. He claims that our family is descended from Levi." She shrugged, indicating either her disbelief or lack of caring. "Any idea about your ancestry? Oh, wait—your last name is David."

"David is a common Israeli surname," Ziva pointed out. "And I have never cared much for genealogy."

"Right. Anyway, back to my childhood as a rabbi's daughter." She took a breath to redirect herself. "I know Hebrew as well as English, and I'm quite proficient in Yiddish as well. I went to private Hebrew school all the way through secondary school and spent my summers in Israel since I was a _bat mitzvah_." She turned her face back to Ziva. "You're Israeli, right? That's right, you just said you were. I never thought that it would be so different growing up in another country until that first summer, when I was twelve," Sault said softly. "My first week in Jerusalem, I saw a car explode. There were two children in the back. I saw the firefighters drag their bodies out from the wreckage. I don't think I stopped crying for three days. I wanted to go home so badly, but I was afraid to even ask. There were—there were two Israeli girls about my age across the street from where I was. They saw the explosion and just walked away, not giving it a second glance. It was just another day for them." Her eyes had filled with tears again as she spoke. "You must have grown up so fast."

"Yes," Ziva repeated, not elaborating.

"Sorry," Sault said, getting herself back on track. "I don't mean to make this about you. It was about Chris, me and Chris." She paused and swallowed a few times. "My dad spent some time in Israel before he married my mom, and it really influenced his way of living, his way of thinking, his faith, his ideas of what a father should be. Asher and Jake enlisted when they graduated from high school, because, well, because that's what you do in Israel. I went to Annapolis instead, and even through the Naval Academy, I was a good little Jewish girl, whenever I could be. Then I graduated, went through training, was stationed at the Navy Yard." She shook her head slightly as if remembering. "Growing up, I was one of those girls who used to imagine her wedding—the _ketubah_, the _nisu'in_, the smashing of the wine glass, my father officiating the ceremony—the whole deal. And then I met Chris, who's charming and brilliant and looks _damned_ good in his uniform—and graduated from a Catholic high school."

"Your father must not have been pleased." She was familiar with that feeling, the idea of falling for a man her father would never approve of, for many reasons. Lt. Sault's answer surprised her, though.

"My dad _loves_ Chris. My dad's a Navy man, and within minutes of meeting each other, the two are singing 'Anchors Aweigh' and telling stories over beers like they've been stationed together forever. But no matter how highly he thinks of Chris, no matter how much he wants—_wanted—_us to get married, he couldn't officiate, and we couldn't have a Jewish wedding, not unless Chris converted, and, well—"

"Orthodox rabbis do not like to see conversions for the sole reason of marriage," Ziva interrupted.

"Right. So for awhile, we just _were_. We lived together, we signed all sorts of legal papers to give each other rights, we signed over half of our SGLI to each other, but we couldn't get married, and that killed me, which almost killed _us_. And we talked about it, and we fought about it, and one or the other almost moved out half a dozen times because of it, and then Chris decided that if it was important to me, it was important to him. His own faith wasn't a big deal to him. His family is mostly Catholic for the sake of being Catholic, as opposed to any real belief, but still, they weren't thrilled with the idea of him becoming Jewish." She looked away, a sad expression on her face. "Chris has a twin brother, Mike—Michael. They're identical, did everything together until Mike married his high school sweetheart halfway through college. Mike and Molly just had their first baby a month ago, Colleen. She's being baptized tomorrow, and Chris never said anything aloud, but I knew that he always thought that he'd be the godfather of Mike's first kid. But I guess it doesn't make much sense for a Catholic girl to have a Jewish godfather. Their younger brother Brian and his wife Laska are going to be the godparents instead."

"So Lt. Shaw's family did not approve?"

Sault shook her head. "They approve of the _relationship_. They don't approve of him trying to convert for the sake of it. They don't really understand why it was so important that he do so, and they certainly don't understand the kind of pressure all of this put on me." Ziva remained silent, hoping her expression didn't give away what she was thinking, that she understood perfectly what Lt. Sault was describing. "Anyway, to make an already really long story somewhat shorter, there are these adult education couples classes at my synagogue, in Georgetown. It's geared toward mixed couples, so it's a really small group—the rabbi and his wife teach, and four or five other couples would attend, depending on how many showed up any given week." Her eyes filled with tears again. "I guess that's over now."

"I am sorry," Ziva said again, the words sounding forced and hollow to her ears. "Is there anybody you would like to call? The numbers provided in your file were for Lt. Shaw and your father—"

"Who doesn't answer the phone on the Sabbath," Sault finished for her, nodding slightly. "My brother Jake. He has the month off from school and was staying with me and Chris for a bit while he was shopping for an apartment near Bethesda. He's doing his internship here next year." The tears in her eyes now spilled over. "He decided to drive down to Norfolk on Thursday instead of waiting for us on Friday." She tried to wipe at her cheeks, only to find her arm tangled in IV tubing. "He'll answer his phone. I don't know where my phone is, though."

"It was still in your car," David informed her. "It is in our evidence lab. You will get it back soon."

Sault nodded, then gestured toward the beige hospital phone, which Ziva handed her. The conversation was brief; from what Ziva heard of Sault's end, most of it was reassuring her brother that she was fine and telling him not to leave the party on her behalf, which he was ignoring. She hung up the phone with a heavy "_Shalom_," before handing it back to the Mossad officer.

Ziva thanked the lieutenant for the information and rose to leave, but Sault's hand on her arm stopped her. "Please," she said, her voice soft. "I—I would like to say _Kaddish Avelim_ for Chris. I know he's not—he wasn't—Jewish, but I feel—"

"I used to listen to my mother singing the _Kaddish_," Ziva interrupted. "That is the only way I remember the words." She closed her eyes briefly, remembering a growing pool of blood on a basement floor, the heavy sounds of Gibbs' footprints as he ascended the stairs to leave her alone with her half-brother for the last time. In that moment, all she could think about was the sound of her mother's rich voice and the Aramaic words that flowed from those lips every morning for a year, and kneeling over his body, she found herself singing them the way her mother had.

Sault nodded. "_Toda_," she whispered. She began, her voice soft and melodious and filled with sorrow. Ziva's voice soon joined hers, her voice equally contemplative, but it wasn't a recently deceased Navy lieutenant occupying her thoughts.


	5. Chapter 4

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 4**

_A/N: Wow, I can't believe how many people have been reviewing...thank you! I'm so glad that you're liking the story, and I hope you continue to enjoy it._

* * *

Agent Tony DiNozzo was about to knock on the hospital door and walk in when he heard what sounded like voices singing floating from the room to the corridor. He frowned, trying to make out the words, when he realized that they definitely weren't singing in English. Remembering Ziva's earlier comment about not understanding and not being compassionate when he doesn't understand, he slowly backed away, leaning against the wall and waiting for his partner to emerge.

She did so a few minutes later, her eyes clear but her gaze slightly distracted. Not knowing what to say, DiNozzo decided to resort to his usual joking manner. "Hey," he said. "I was going to come in, but then I heard the Hebrew Girl's Choir from inside and decided that if you were going to be providing a free concert—"

"It was a prayer of mourning, Tony, not a showgirl performance," Officer Ziva David interrupted. "I just had the not-so-pleasant experience of telling Hannah that the man she wanted to marry is dead."

"Hannah?" he repeated, his eyebrows raised. He could count the number of times Ziva had referred to someone in a case, victim or otherwise, by their first name. Each time, she ended up more involved than he cared to contemplate.

"Lt. Sault," she clarified with a brief glare, beginning to head down the corridor back toward the exit. DiNozzo followed dutifully. "Nobody had been able to get in touch with her family," she said, immediately back to business. "The only numbers for emergency contacts were Lt. Shaw and her father, who is otherwise occupied today. She spoke briefly with her brother, Ensign Jacob Sault, who likely left Norfolk about five minutes ago and is on his way here. I would be surprised if the rest of her family did not arrive about four hours after sunset tonight."

"When the Sabbath is over and they can drive again," he said thoughtfully, more in realization than making any actual statement.

"Yes," David replied with a nod as she stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the parking level. "I will call Captain Daniel Sault in a few hours and ask that they come by NCIS after they visit their daughter."

"Did you learn anything?"

She shook her head slightly. "Nothing I did not already suspect. She is Jewish; he was not. It put a strain on their relationship."

He tried not to read too much into that statement. "Families bothered by it?"

"Not to the extend of trying to kill either of them," she shot back.

"Extent," he corrected.

"That is what I said."

"No, you said ex—"

"Is this relevant, Tony?" she asked, her voice slightly angry. "She wanted a Jewish wedding, which she could not have unless he converted, and rabbis, especially Orthodox rabbis, do not like to see conversions for the sake of marriage. They were involved in adult education classes at her synagogue in Georgetown. It was for mixed couples who are trying to learn about Jewish religion and culture in order for the non-Jewish member to become Jewish."

"Really?" he asked, genuinely interested. "They have classes like that?"

She shrugged as they stepped out of the elevator. "I do not know from personal experience, Tony. As both you and Gibbs have so clearly pointed out, I do not spend much time in synagogues."

* * *

It was quiet in the bullpen, but not the companionable quiet of four agents all working hard to sniff out leads and catch the bad guy. Rather, it was tense, strained quiet of four agents with no leads, no suspects, and no motive for a fatal attack on two Navy lieutenants. Although nobody was voicing their concerns aloud, all feared that this might be a random crime, another DC sniper in the works, and that their next lead wouldn't come until somebody else had been killed.

"Where're you going, Boss?" DiNozzo asked as he saw Agent Gibbs rise abruptly from his chair and head toward the elevators.

"Abby's lab," Gibbs called back over his shoulder. "I'm hoping _she's_ got something for me, since you three are failing so miserably at it!"

"Ouch," DiNozzo said with a wince as the elevator doors closed. "That was harsh, don't you think? Ziva? McGee?"

"Shut up, Tony," David replied, not even looking up from her computer screen.

"What are you working on over there, David?" DiNozzo asked, extending the syllables of her last name as he got up from his seat and crossed the bullpen to her desk. He stood immediately behind her, bending down to rest his chin on her shoulder as he studied the computer screen. "VICAP reports?" he asked dubiously. "That sounds like boring reading if I've ever heard of it. What're you doing that for?"

"I am checking the history of deaths where the victim or victims were part of a mixed Jewish/non-Jewish couple," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Really?" he asked, somewhat impressed that she was going that angle. He knew she had been caught up in this 'she was Jewish, he was not' thing since the crime scene, but he never expected her to resort to checking VICAP records to see if they were looking for some sort of religiously-motivated serial killer. "They have that information?"

She gave a frustrated sigh. "Usually, no," she admitted. "It seems that police officers are often too concerned with being 'politically correct' to make such observations. The only time religion is mentioned is when there is suspicion from the beginning that it is a—what do you call it? When a crime is motivated by race or sexual orientation?"

"Hate crime," DiNozzo and McGee answered simultaneously.

"Right," David said, nodding agreement. "I have never understood that term. Does it imply that other crimes are not motivated by strong negative emotions?"

"It's just a phrase, Ziva," McGee explained. "And you have to admit, this isn't something we usually pay attention to. In fact, if you hadn't noticed the book with the Hebrew on the card, none of us would have even thought about religion." He also got up from his seat, but stayed on the other side of Ziva's desk instead of joining her and Tony behind it. "Any luck?"

"No," she admitted with a sigh. She was surprised when Tony stood up, replacing his chin on her shoulder with his hands, kneading the muscles slightly. When the phone on her desk rang a few seconds later, he immediately jumped back a good six inches, as if caught with his hands in the proverbial cookie jar. She smiled slightly as she reached for the phone. "David." She listened for a moment, nodding her head once or twice before hanging up the phone. "That was Gibbs," she informed the two NCIS agents.

"Really?" DiNozzo asked, seeming genuinely impressed, still thinking about the timing of his putting his hands on Ziva's shoulders and the phone ringing. She rolled her eyes at him as she forcefully pushed her chair back from her desk, slamming into him. "Oww!"

"He wants us down in the lab," she informed him and McGee as she calmly walked toward the elevator. DiNozzo caught the amused expression on McGee's face as he began to follow.

"Stuff it, Probie," he muttered darkly, taking up the rear.

* * *

DiNozzo glanced across the bullpen to his partner, still studying her computer screen, in the same position she had been in since they returned from Abby's lab. Despite Gibbs' hope of getting more information from the forensic scientist, she had nothing earth-shattering to report. There was nothing distinguishing about the bullet Ducky had pulled from Lt. Christopher Shaw's skull; there were millions of similar bullets sold for the thousands of rifles registered in Virginia, Maryland, and DC. Abby had estimated a trajectory of the bullet and determined that the shooter was likely set up on a nearby overpass. He-or she-would have had to have been a pretty good shot, not to mention a patient person, if they were targeting Lt. Shaw; even if it were a random crime in which the victim didn't matter, it would have required some skill with a rifle. Still, it wasn't anything that somebody with basic military training couldn't pull off. Even though they knew it was likely a dead end, Gibbs and McGee had left to check out the overpass in hopes of finding evidence of a sniper's nest, such as brass or usable fingerprints. Before stepping behind the wheel of the Charger, Gibbs had angrily called back to DiNozzo and David that they better have something for him when he saw them the next morning.

"Still checking the VICAP reports?" DiNozzo finally asked. He had been going through Shaw's and Sault's records, trying to figure out if either of them had done anything to piss off the wrong people, or called the wrong phone number, or just about anything that would lead him to believe that they had been targeted and not just in the wrong place at the wrong time. All he could find was that Shaw donated to the engineering department at Penn State and liked to buy Sault jewelry, and Sault called the same number in Israel on the first Sunday of every month.

"I am not finding much useful," David admitted.

He crossed to her desk, taking up position behind her, much as he had done earlier. "Sometimes it's all about sneaking up on the information," he said, his lips right next to her ear as he reached around her to the keyboard. "Let's start with limiting it to the tri-state area, or we'll never get through all the data. Now, we could limit the search to only couples, but then we'll miss out on cases where one half a couple is killed and the other isn't. Like Shaw and Sault."

"Tony, we can not go through every crime in the tri-state area to search for mixed couples," Ziva said with a frown.

"Oh ye of little faith," he shot back, turning his head to give her a grin. She tried not to think about how close they were sitting, how it would only take leaning over a couple of inches… Her eyes flickered to his lips involuntarily, but he didn't seem to notice, his attention already back on the computer screen. "You can narrow it down by searching the 'persons of interest', 'witnesses', and 'significant other' categories. So, check those boxes, then 'girlfriend' or 'boyfriend' or 'fiancée' or 'wife' or 'husband'," he said, talking as he typed, his motions slower than his already tedious hunting and pecking at the keyboard, on account of the Mossad officer sitting between his arms.

"That is still a lot of cases to go through," David said with a frown, focusing on the computer screen to avoid thinking about something else. Like the warmth of her partner's arms around her.

"Well, we'll just have to modify it some more," he replied, again pecking at the keyboard. "Keyword search for 'rabbi' or 'synagogue' or 'Jewish' might get us somewhere." He hit enter and gave a satisfied grin. "Thirty-one cases. That's manageable."

"Thank you," Ziva replied, somewhat taken aback. "When did you learn how to use a computer?"

"Hey," he said defensively, rising from behind her. "McGeek's not the only one who knows how to search a database." She didn't say anything in reply, just raised her eyebrows. "It was part of my job as a rookie homicide detective," he finally admitted. "I had to search the VICAP records for any similar cases."

"Well, thank you," Ziva replied as she watched him return to his own desk. "Now if I have to do this again, I will know who to ask for help."

He gave her a quick grin. "You staying to go through those?" She nodded in reply. "Want some help?"

"No, thank you," she said, oddly touched by his asking. She knew how much he disliked going through old case reports. "Thirty-one cases should not take too long."

"Well, give me a call if anything comes up," he said, slipping his Sig Sauer into his holster as he prepared to leave for the day.

"I would not want to interrupt your date," Ziva replied teasingly. He snorted sarcastically and rolled his eyes.

"Right." He watched her for a moment, remembering their conversation earlier that day and how little sleep she had gotten the night before. "You should get some rest."

"I am fine," she replied, not looking up at him. He chuckled.

"I _know_ you're 'fine'," he shot back. He softened when she finally looked up, glaring slightly at him. "Sorry," he said, not sure what he was apologizing for. He watched her for another moment, her dark eyes focused on the computer screen. "_Laila tov_," he finally said as he began walking away.

She glanced up to see her partner heading away from his desk toward the elevator and called back, "Good night, Tony."


	6. Chapter 5

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 5**

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews! I love it. Just so you know, I do realize that Abby has yet to make an appearance in this story. It's not that I don't like Abby; I love Abby. She makes me laugh. Unfortunately, this is mainly a Tony/Ziva fic, and there's not a lot of forensics evidence, so Abby will not play a large role. She will appear, though, as soon as I find a good place to put her. Until that happens, I hope you continue to enjoy._

* * *

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs stepped off the elevator and frowned. _Something's not right_. He wasn't sure if it was his infamous gut telling him that or something else, but he knew that something was off.

It was too quiet. It had taken him a moment to figure that out, but that's what it was. It was too quiet. DiNozzo wasn't running his mouth off, McGee wasn't telling him to shut up, Ziva wasn't making death threats or laughing at her partners' antics. He started to get annoyed with their disappearing acts, until he rounded the corner and found all three agents at their desks, silently working on…whatever it was they were working on. McGee looked exhausted, but it didn't take a trained investigator to figure that one out—they had searched the area around and on the overpass until 0300 that morning, and then the junior field agent had volunteered to take the evidence back to NCIS. Gibbs doubted he had been back to his apartment. As far as DiNozzo and David, well, he looked more rested than her, but the silence in the bullpen was enough to tell Gibbs that neither was operating at one hundred percent.

He was about to ask for an update on the case when he heard the elevator doors opening behind him, revealing a well-dressed middle-aged couple, the wife carrying what appeared to be a plate of food. "Can I help you?" he asked with a frown.

"Captain Daniel Sault, sir," the man said, his voice soft and sad as he offered his hand. "And my wife, Cheryl." DiNozzo blinked in surprise.

"He's an Orthodox Jewish rabbi?" he whispered to Ziva, taking in the short salt-and-pepper hair, tall and lean build, crisp khaki pants, and pressed Oxford shirt, a tear through the left breast pocket marring his otherwise orderly appearance.

"What did you expect?" she hissed back. "A round hat, long beard, and curled sideburns?"

"Well, yeah," he admitted. "Like Rabbi Tuckman. You know, Mel Brooks' adaptation of Friar Tuck in his 1993 film _Robin Hood: Men in Tights_—"

"He is also a Navy chaplain, Tony," she interrupted. "And you should not believe everything you see on TV."

"We can go up to the conference room, Captain," Gibbs offered, nodding toward the stairs. Sault nodded and followed the NCIS special agent.

"I brought your team refreshments," Cheryl Sault said hesitantly as her husband ascended the stairs. Although her ash blond hair was arranged perfectly, her green eyes were puffy and blood-shot, belying her grief. Like the rabbi, she was well-dressed, a straight black skirt falling to mid-shin and lightweight black cardigan over a crisp white shirt. Her sweater also had a tear at the left collar. If it weren't for that tear and her eyes, she would have looked more like a captain's wife dining with the other wives at the clubhouse of the Army-Navy golf course than a rabbi's grieving wife. "It's not fresh, unfortunately. We had some leftovers from my nephew's _bar mitzvah_ dinner. I didn't want them to go to waste, and I thought perhaps you would like them."

"Uh, actually, ma'am, we can't—" McGee began.

"We should put that in the break room, _Rebbetzin_," Ziva interrupted. "Please, follow me."

"Ziva, we can't—"

"Leave it alone, McStickler," DiNozzo said as he returned to his seat. "Ziva knows how to deal with Jewish mothers. After all, she has one."

"Ziva has a mother?"

"Did you think she hatched, Probie?"

* * *

Ziva took the tray from Cheryl Sault's hands and placed it on the table by the vending machines. She smiled thinly at the older woman. "Please, have a seat."

"Thank you," Mrs. Sault replied, all but collapsing into the chair.

"I am sorry for your loss."

Mrs. Sault gave a small sob, her green eyes again filling with tears. "Thank you," she managed. "Hannah said you very kind to her yesterday. Thank you for taking care of my little girl."

"We will find who did this to your daughter and Lt. Shaw, ma'am."

The rabbi's wife sniffed loudly and nodded. "Chris was like a son to us," she managed, tears falling down her cheeks. Ziva had guessed as much; their clothes were torn on the left, where parents would rent their clothes upon hearing of a child's death. She assumed the Saults were taking the role of grieving parents, as Shaw's parents weren't Jewish. "He and Hannah loved each other so much. She wanted nothing more than to marry him."

"But she could not."

Mrs. Sault shook her head and gave another small sob. "I begged my husband to make an exception," she admitted. "I asked him to put aside his beliefs for the sake of our daughter. I accused him of being cold and uncaring. I was asking him to defy God."

"A parent will do anything for a child," Ziva replied, her words hollow. She almost appreciated the irony of her being the one to say those words.

"No," Mrs. Sault replied, shaking her head. "_Not_ defy God. We are children of Abraham, Ziva. Abraham, who was ready to sacrifice his child to show his devotion to God. I fear that my words have displeased God and that this pain on our family is our punishment."

Ziva found herself unable to think of what to say, finding herself wishing fervently that she had done a better job of reading the Torah growing up, so she would have words to offer the grieving woman. She chose to move on instead. "Hannah told me that Lt. Shaw—Chris—was taking classes at the synagogue."

Mrs. Sault sniffed loudly as she nodded her head. "They were taking the class together," she informed the Mossad officer. "It was a couple's class, to teach them to grow together in their faithfulness to God and how to observe traditions together. Rabbi Grossman and his wife developed the curriculum, I believe." She looked up at Ziva, her eyes watery with tears. "It was good for both of them. I know Hannah has not been as faithful with her traditions since joining the Navy. I asked my husband to make an exception for her, to not require her to join the military as he had with our sons, but he said that military service is good for both the body and the soul. He was strongly influenced by his time in Israel." She studied the younger woman for a moment. "You were in the military?"

"Yes," Ziva replied. "The Israeli Defense Force. Military intelligence, for three years."

Mrs. Sault nodded. "Hannah would still have wanted to join the Navy, even if her father told her she didn't have to. She always admired her father in uniform, looked up to the sailors on the bases. She was very proud of her brothers when they enlisted and couldn't wait to do the same, but she always had her own ideas for her future, which is why she went to the Naval Academy to become an officer. But she tells me that it's not always easy to be an Orthodox female as an officer in the Navy."

"She seemed to have been happy, before this happened," Ziva said gently. "You should be proud of that."

"Yes," Mrs. Sault agreed. "She was happy. I believe she'll be happy again, but it will take some time." She looked up as she heard footsteps behind her, rising when she saw her husband standing next to Agent Gibbs.

"We should get back to the hospital," he said, his dark eyes gentle. "I'm afraid Jake will forget he's not a doctor yet."

She nodded quietly as she moved to stand next to him. He took her hand in his, giving it a tight squeeze before turning his attention to the dark haired Israeli officer standing before him.

"Rabbi Sault," she said with a nod.

"Officer David," he replied. "Thank you for the kindness you have shown our family." He studied her for a moment before speaking again. "I spent some time in Israel immediately after I joined the rabbinate. I remember saying a prayer for remembrance of IDF soldiers in Jerusalem with a Lieutenant Eli David."

She gave a small nod, barely registering the sudden appearance of Tony and McGee by the foot of the stairs. "My father," she confirmed.

"You resemble him," Rabbi Sault stated. "Is he well?"

"He is."

The rabbi nodded. "I have always thought about him on the anniversary of that day. You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I always wondered if he was actually Mossad."

"He was," she said. "He still is."

"I thought so," Sault said, nodding thoughtfully. "I could not think of any other reason why an IDF officer would spend so much time around a Palestinian doctor." He didn't know Ziva well enough to register the brief flash of—pain? Anger?—that crossed her face, but Tony caught it. He did the math quickly in his head and realized that Sault was probably referring to Dr. Haswari, Ari's mother. "I'm sorry, Officer David, Agent Gibbs, but we must really be going. Hannah is in _aninut_, and we should be there for her." He gave a quick nod to the team, and another small one when his eyes again fell on Ziva.

"_Hamakom y'nachem etkhem b'tokh sha'ar avelei tziyon viyrushalayim_," she said, returning his nod. She had seen far too much death in her life to not know what to say to a family in mourning.

"_Toda_," Rabbi Sault said in reply as he led his wife back to the elevators.


	7. Chapter 6

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 6**

* * *

Agent Gibbs waited a full five minutes after the elevator doors closed before he turned to his Mossad liaison. "Okay, Ziva, let's hear it," he said.

"Gibbs?" she asked, a puzzled expression on her face.

"You seem rather involved with this case."

She frowned. "You are always telling me that I need to work on my people skills," she pointed out.

"I think you've gone a bit beyond working on your people skills." He studied her for a moment. "If this is about Friday—"

"It is not," she interrupted stiffly. He stared at her for a moment before turning to McGee.

"Did Abby get anything from the overpass?"

"Not yet, Boss," the most junior agent replied. "She's running the fingerprints we collected through every database she can think of. It could be as long as two days before she gets through them."

"Or we could get a hit in two minutes," Gibbs countered. "So where are we now?"

"Uh, pretty much, the same place we were yesterday," McGee admitted. "Non-descript bullets, no shell casings, no hits on the fingerprints—"

"Any luck with the interviews?" Gibbs interrupted, turning to DiNozzo and David.

DiNozzo shrugged. "From all accounts, everyone liked both of the lieutenants. Nobody could figure out why anybody would want either dead."

"Family, friends?"

"Both were close to each other's families," Ziva informed him. "His family could not understand why they could not marry, but they did not hold that against Lt. Sault." She glanced over at DiNozzo for a second before turning back to Gibbs. "I do not think we can exclude the possibility that this is due to their religious backgrounds."

Gibbs frowned. "Do you have any evidence to support that, Officer David?"

She held up the printouts of the VICAP reports she had read the night before. "I—well, Tony and I—searched VICAP and found seven deaths of one or both members of a mixed Jewish and non-Jewish couple in the tri-state area in the last four years. One was a confirmed murder/suicide, one was a confirmed suicide, one was a mugging resulting in the conviction of the suspect, and one was due to natural causes—cancer, I believe. The remaining three are still unsolved. One was confirmed arson resulting in the deaths of both a Jewish kindergarten teacher and his wife. That was almost four years ago, no suspects. Another was cyanide poisoning, two and a half years ago. The Jewish girlfriend was questioned, but no arrests were made. And the last was fifteen months ago, a home invasion resulting the death of an emergency room physician. Her boyfriend, who was Jewish, was out of town that weekend."

"Three cases in four years?" Gibbs asked dubiously. "With three different MOs, the only thing they have in common being the religion of their significant other? That's a bit weak, Ziva."

She shook her head quickly as she crossed to her desk. She hit a few keys before picking up the remote to the plasma screen, displaying a map of the DC area with five dots, the one in the middle larger than the others. "I believe all attended the same synagogue," she said. "All lived near Georgetown, around this synagogue. The same synagogue Lieutenants Shaw and Sault attended."

Both DiNozzo's and McGee's jaws dropped; Gibbs' eyebrows rose. "That's good work, David," Gibbs finally said. He glanced over at her, a small smirk quirking on his lips. "Looks like you just got yourself a new synagogue."

She frowned and shook her head. "That will not be enough, Gibbs. There are thousands of members of that synagogue, in addition to those who attend who are not members. There is no way to investigate them all. And if I am right, he—or she—targets couples." As if moving together, both Gibbs and McGee slowly turned to face DiNozzo.

"What?" he asked, seeing the knowing looks on their faces. "No. No way I'm going undercover with Ziva again. Boss! The last time we went undercover together I almost died!"

"You were hit a couple of times," Ziva said, rolling her eyes.

"I meant when you pulled a gun on me while you were asleep!" he shot back.

"Suck it up, DiNozzo," Gibbs replied, knowing that they would keep going if he didn't put a stop to it. "It's not as if you have a problem being ordered to date somebody."

DiNozzo flinched at the words, which he knew was the desired effect. "Fine," he finally ground out between clenched teeth. "Ziva and I will make an appearance at the synagogue on Saturday."

To their surprise, David shook her head. "That will not be good enough," she stated. "He is patient. There are likely dozens of couples who attend the synagogue every week, and yet he has only killed five people in four years."

"If he exists," Gibbs pointed out.

"Yes," Ziva admitted. "If he exists. What I am saying is that this could be a long-term operation."

"Long-term?" DiNozzo echoed weakly. "Like, a week?" Normally, he'd have no problem spending time outside work with Ziva; it wasn't anything they haven't done before. Movies, drinks, dinners at one apartment or the other, even the odd trips to the firing range every now and then—those he could handle. An extended period of time _pretending_ to be her boyfriend? That was a different story altogether. He blinked to bring himself back to the moment to see Ziva giving him a strange look before returning her attention to Gibbs.

"We should contact Mossad," she said. "For cover stories and assistance."

Gibbs frowned; he never liked working with Mossad, not the first time he had been forced to and not any other time. "These deaths happened on American soil."

"Mossad is not pleased with any attack on Jews," she stated. "Regardless of whose dirt it is on. And they have resources we do not have access to at NCIS."

Gibbs continued to study the Mossad liaison before nodding. "Give Daddy a call," he finally said. "If Mossad agrees, we'll talk about what needs to be done."

Ziva rolled her eyes as she returned to her desk and picked up the phone. "I do not think this requires the attention of the director," she said. "I am sure my contact at the Israeli Embassy is more than qualified to sign off on this mission. _Shalom_," she said into the phone, turning her entire body away from the team as she continued to speak in Hebrew.

Both Gibbs and DiNozzo watched her for a moment before Gibbs turned to DiNozzo. "Guess you won't have to worry about finding a date for the next couple of weeks."

"Yeah, thanks, Boss," DiNozzo said weakly.

* * *

"Tea?" Officer Bashan asked, his back to the door as the receptionist escorted Officer Ziva David into his private inner office. He was already pouring the hot tea into two china cups, not waiting for a response.

"Please," David replied politely. He nodded once, turning to face her, two cups and saucers in hand.

"Please, sit," he said, gesturing toward the plush couch and chair around a coffee table in a corner of the large office. He placed both cups on the table and waited for her to sit before he did as well. "How have you been? It has been a long time since we have met."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, knowing exactly when the last time was—she had just followed a _Metsada_ team, nearly got blown up in a bombing, had seen her dead partner, and was framed for terrorism. Not her best day. "I am well," she finally replied, her voice and posture stiff.

Bashan gave no indication he noticed her discomfort. "And your father?" he asked. "How is he?"

She was going to shot back that he probably knew better than she, but bit her tongue; she needed his cooperation. "The last time we spoke, we did not speak much of him."

"Yes, the anniversary of your sister's death," Bashan replied as he raised his cup to his lips, his voice calm and neutral. She didn't reply, waiting for him to realize she wasn't there for small talk. He did, eventually. "I understand you are investigating the death of a Navy lieutenant."

She didn't bother asking how he knew; he was, after all, a spy. "His girlfriend was also in the car," she stated needlessly, knowing that he already knew that. "She is Jewish. Her father is a rabbi and U.S. Navy chaplain."

He nodded, taking another sip of his tea. "You believe that they were targeted for their religious beliefs." It wasn't a question.

David thought about that for a moment, trying to figure out how to formulate her response. Finally, she set her cup and saucer on the table and got to the point. "I believe that Lieutenants Shaw and Sault were the latest in a series of attacks against Jewish citizens and their non-Jewish significant others. In the last four years, there have been three other couples in DC whom I believe have been targeted."

Bashan seemed to think about this for a moment before nodding his understanding. "And you would like Mossad's blessing to go undercover to investigate." He took another sip of tea. She was starting to get annoyed with that particular delaying tactic; one more and she'd be tempted to knock the cup and saucer right from his hands. "And your partner would be Special Agent DiNozzo."

She stiffened again, instantly on the defensive. It was Officer Bashan who had confronted her on that day years ago with pictures of Tony in her apartment, asking about their relationship. She didn't answer then, and she wasn't going to now. "Yes," she said, her voice firm. "He is my partner, after all."

The older Mossad officer nodded. "I will speak to Director Vance," he finally said. "We will come up with an arrangement suitable for both agencies." He rose, indicating that the meeting was over. "We will be in touch, Officer David."

She gave a crisp nod as she stood. "Thank you, Officer Bashan." With nothing else to be said, she turned and left the office.


	8. Chapter 7

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 7**

* * *

After leaving the Israeli Embassy, Officer Ziva David decided to swing by Bethesda to see Hannah Sault. Now that she suspected that there was a connection between the cases and the synagogue she attended, she had some more questions to ask the lieutenant.

She glanced into the hospital room and found Lt. Sault speaking on a cell phone, looking only slightly better than she had the day before. The thick bandages around her head had removed, but the bruises around her eyes had changed colors, giving her an almost ghastly appearance. Seated next to the lieutenant and reading through a chart was a young-looking doctor in the khaki uniform of a naval officer.

"Is this a bad time?" David asked softly, directing the question more at the doctor. Lt. Sault glanced up and nodded slightly to acknowledge the Mossad officer's presence, continuing her conversation. It sounded almost like she was working on funeral arrangements.

"No, no, it's fine," the doctor said quickly, rising to his feet. "Ensign Jake Sault, Hannah's brother."

"Officer Ziva David, NCIS," Ziva replied, showing her credentials. Now that he had introduced himself, she could see the family resemblance: he had the same hazel eyes and chestnut-brown hair as his sister, the soft features of his mother, and the tall, lean build of his father. Although she had suspected as much from the Saults' visit to NCIS that morning, she could see that they were a very close-knit family, a concept she had little personal experience with.

"Hannah and my parents all mentioned you," he said with a nod. He glanced over at his sister quickly before turning back to David. "Maybe we should talk somewhere else?"

She was a bit surprised by the request, but nodded, wondering what he could offer that his sister and parents could not. He turned to his sister and muttered something to her before giving her a kiss on the forehead. He grabbed a white lab coat from the back of his chair, shrugging it on as he followed David from the room.

"Sorry about the get-up," he said as he closed the door behind him, gesturing toward the coat and uniform. "I've found that if you want to get answers around a military hospital, it helps to be a military medical student and to make sure everyone knows it. You feel like getting coffee? There's a Dunkin Donuts just off the lobby."

"That would be nice," Ziva agreed, following him through the confusing maze of corridors and elevators. They placed their orders for coffee and took two seats in a fairly quiet corner off the waiting room.

"I didn't want to say anything around Hannah," Ensign Sault began, "but I heard a couple of nurses talking in the corridor, something about Chris being shot?"

"Yes," Ziva confirmed with a nod.

"So this wasn't an accident?"

"It does not appear to be, no," she replied. She realized, belatedly, that the medical student was actually quite attractive, obviously intelligent, a seemingly nice person, and Jewish. If DiNozzo had been there, he would be teasing her—in front of Ensign Sault—about staring. She wondered what that said about her state of mind that she _hadn't_ been staring.

Sault exhaled deeply, shaking his head as he stared down into his coffee cup. "Man," he muttered before looking back up at her. "Are you thinking this is something random, maybe some nut-job like the sniper a few years back?"

"I am sorry, Ensign, I cannot comment on an active investigation."

"Jake," he corrected before nodding slightly. "Right, sorry." He chuckled slightly, almost nervously, running a hand over his short military haircut. "Maybe you should be taking me into NCIS, then."

"Are you confessing something?" Ziva asked with a frown. His head shot up in alarm.

"What? No! No, I'm just saying… Aww, shit." He shook his head again and frowned. "I'm sure you'll run into somebody at some point who will say something about the disapproving older brother… And I was a corpsman for a Marine unit, I know how to fire a gun… Maybe I should explain." He took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts. "I'm not the most observant Jew out there. Not by far, actually. Before yesterday, the last time I was in a synagogue was… I don't even remember. Not Rosh Hashanah, not Yom Kippur. It's been awhile. I still try to keep kosher at home, but I've been known to order chicken alfredo at a restaurant every once in awhile."

Ziva chuckled involuntarily. "My new favorite sandwich is a Philly cheesesteak," she admitted, making him laugh slightly in return.

"That's something Hannah and I had in common. Well, we have a lot in common. Growing up, it was always me and Hannah teaming up against Asher. They say that whenever there're three kids in the family, it will always be two against one. I guess that was true." He shook his head slightly. "Asher heads off to Yeshiva after his enlistment and becomes a rabbi, and Hannah and I stick with the Navy and begin to lapse in our practices. I guess all that Hebrew school and observing Shabbat wasn't enough." He brought his cup to his lips. "Even though I knew Hannah wasn't as observant as she used to be, I was still surprised when she started dating Chris, and I'm sure I said one or two things about my little sister dating someone who wasn't Jewish a few times, so like I said, you dig deep enough, you'll find someone who will bring that up."

"You did not like Lt. Shaw?"

"No, that's not it at all," he said, shaking his head. "I didn't like him until I met him. After that, well, my biggest problem with him is that he went to Penn State and I'm at Ohio State." He smiled slightly, remembering. "Chris and Hannah came out to Columbus in the fall for the Penn State-Ohio State football game. Hannah was wearing an OSU sweatshirt, just to tease Chris. When Penn State won the game, Chris kept joking about it, saying how much he's going to enjoy taking that hoodie off her." He rolled his eyes. "I told them I was glad they had a hotel room and I wouldn't have to hear anything."

Ziva smiled slightly. "My partner went to Ohio State for his undergraduate degree. He still talks about it."

Sault grinned. "It's that type of school. We have a lot of spirit, at least when it comes to our athletic teams." His expression became serious again. "Chris and Hannah were good together. They really loved each other, you know? They were one of those couples everyone rolls their eyes about, because nobody should have the right to be that happy with another person. I don't know. Maybe I'm just exaggerating things, you know, remembering only the good things now that he's dead." He shook his head. "I told them that they should just elope. Just find a JAG, fill out the paperwork, and tell everyone later. Hannah said it was tempting, but I knew she wanted that big Jewish wedding. I just don't get it." He eyed the Mossad officer. "You're a woman. What's with making a big deal about the wedding?"

Ziva gave another small smile. "I was never a girl who imagined her wedding," she informed him. Since she was a twenty-one-year-old Mossad recruit, she never imagined she'd see thirty, either, but that had come and gone. Maybe some things weren't impossible. "I imagine it would be important to your father that she have a traditional Jewish wedding."

"Yeah, that's probably it," Sault said with a nod. "Daddy's little girl and all that. After she's discharged from the hospital, she's putting in for a transfer to Norfolk. She wants to move back home to be closer to the parents, away from her memories of Chris, that sort of thing. I'm starting my internship here in July. I'm going to be subletting their place until the lease is up. It's a bit more than I'd like to be spending, but at least it's within walking distance of the synagogue." He rolled his eyes. "Should make Dad feel better, although I'll probably still only go once or twice a year. You know, I was really looking forward to moving here, getting to spend time with Chris and Hannah." He shook his head before looking at her, his expression sad. "You always think there's enough time to do something. It's not until it's too late that you realize that's just not true."

* * *

There were weapon pieces everywhere around the Silver Spring apartment. The Uzi had been dissembled on the couch, the pieces of the Sig Sauer were resting on a cloth on the piano bench, the parts of the T.A.R. 21 were now on the dining room table, and Ziva David was making short work of the Galil on the kitchen counter. She wasn't even thinking about what she was doing; ever since her father taught her how to disassemble and clean a gun, it had an almost meditative effect on her. The thought of her father stilled her hands for an instant, trapped in a sudden memory of another time a small apartment had been covered in weapons parts.

_"Ziva." She startled at the softly-spoken word, her hands instantly dropping the half-disassembled weapon and bringing the intact one to a ready position. She lowered the handgun when her gaze focused on her father's bearded face._

_"_Abba_," she said, her voice quiet with disbelief. She hadn't expected to see him for several more months; he said it would be better if she had no contact with anyone from her life—especially her family—until she had completed her Mossad training. "What are you doing here? Is there a problem with my training?"_

_"No, Ziva," he said gently. "Your instructors assure me that you are performing adequately." He glanced around the apartment, taking in the partially dismantled IED in the corner and the pieces of the assault rifle on the one table she owned. "I see your weapons training is going well."_

_"Yes." She continued to stare at him, trying to figure out why he was there, in her anonymous apartment in Jerusalem. He looked…older, somehow. He was scheduled to ascend to a Deputy Director position in a month; perhaps it was his years in Mossad that had aged him, all at once._

_"Ziva," he repeated, saying her name slowly, as if stretching it out will make the moment last longer, keep the next moment from happening. "There was an explosion in Tel Aviv. A suicide bombing at a coffee shop near the school."_

_Her eyes widened with sudden recognition. She knew the coffee shop he was talking about; she had spent many hours studying there while she was in high school. As soon as she started the ninth grade, Tali started going there. Ziva had laughed when she heard that and told her younger sister that she needed to find her own places to hang out. "Tali."_

She almost jumped when she heard the doorbell chiming in her apartment, and instantly cursed herself for doing so. Getting distracted and jumpy was never good in her business, especially while holding a weapon, even if it was in several pieces. She sighed as she set aside the body of the Galil and headed for the door.

She rolled her eyes when she opened the door to reveal her partner, his hands full with a pizza, six pack of beer, and what looked like a grocery bag filled with DVDs. "The undercover mission has not even been approved yet, Tony. You do not have to pretend to be my boyfriend."

"What about your partner?" he asked with a grin. "Can't I be that?" She rolled her eyes again as she moved aside to let him in. "Whoa," he said, taking in the disassembled guns. "I've seen weapons locker with less…stuff lying around. That's not the full collection, is it?"

"No," she replied bluntly. There were still handguns under the dishtowels, on the top shelf of the pantry, and under her pillow. Another assault rifle was resting under the clean linens. She sighed. "I do not want to talk about it."

"Who said anything about talking?" DiNozzo asked, still grinning. He placed the pizza box on the coffee table, which was, amazingly enough, free from gutted weapons, and handed her a beer. "Figured you'd want this. I brought pizza—half pepperoni, half cheese—and a wide enough selection of movies that _surely_ you can find something you'd like to see."

"Tony, I—"

"I'm not leaving," he said bluntly, "so don't even bother telling you want to be alone. Now get over here, put this…M16? back together, pick a movie, and drink your damned beer!"

She raised an eyebrow at his faux-commanding tone. "It is an Uzi," she said flatly as she crossed the room. She reassembled the weapon in less than a minute and set it aside. "What did you bring?"

He grinned as he passed the bag of DVDs to her. "This is the movie you were talking about earlier, yes?" she asked, holding up a plastic case.

"_Robin Hood: Men in Tights_," he confirmed with a nod. "It's a classic. Well, not really a classic; it's only from '93. But it's hilarious. Mel Brooks at his best."

"Fine," she said with a nod, placing the DVD in her player. "I can use a good laugh." She settled back onto her couch and accepted a slice of cheese pizza from her partner. She didn't even protest when he put his arm around her shoulders halfway through the movie. She wasn't sure if it was that or the ridiculous comedy, but she had to admit, she felt better by the end of the night.


	9. Chapter 8

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 8**

* * *

Special Agent Tony DiNozzo glanced up from his computer screen as he heard the quiet footsteps of his partner approach from the elevator. "Good morning," she said brightly, giving him a genuine smile. He smiled in return; he suspected that her good mood was a façade to make him feel better, but just seeing her acting more like herself than she had been the last few days was enough to set his mind at ease. Sometimes he wondered how he should feel about the fact that she knew him well enough to know how to cheer him up. He figured it was just a sign of how good of partners they were.

"Morning," he said in reply. He saw McGee watching them curiously from his desk and decided to mess with the junior agent. "Did you finish cleaning those assault rifles?"

Officer Ziva David blinked once before she realized what he was doing. A knowing smile crossed her face. "Not yet," she replied innocently. "I did not have the proper equipment for my SCAR."

"An SOF Combat Assault Rifle?" Agent McGee asked from the third desk, his eyes wide. In the back of his mind, he wondered if he should be wondering if they were just messing with him, but he had to be sure. "Ziva, that's illegal in the United States!"

David gave him a slightly depreciating chuckle as she crossed the bullpen to his desk, practically sashaying as she walked. She patted him lightly on the cheek. "Aww, he is so innocent and naïve," she mocked lightly.

"Just one of his many charms," DiNozzo added with a grin. McGee scowled and waved off Ziva's hand.

"Not funny, guys," he muttered angrily. "I'm serious, Ziva, the penalties for having that kind of gun—"

"Lighten down, McGee," David interrupted lightly as she headed back to her own desk. "I do not have a SCAR." She saw him relax until she casually added, "I prefer Israeli weapons, and the T.A.R. 21 is more than enough firepower for me."

"Lighten _up_, Ziva," DiNozzo corrected. She frowned.

"That does not make any sense," she argued. "How can one—"

"Ziva, I'm serious," McGee interrupted. "Assault rifles—"

"Aren't the most dangerous things she has in her apartment," Agent Gibbs interrupted as he walked into the bullpen.

"Boss?" McGee asked, confused. Gibbs gestured toward the Mossad liaison.

"Ziva is," he explained simply. She gave a smirk as she sat in her own chair, pulling out one of her knives and turning it idly in her fingers. She saw McGee glance over at her and shudder slightly. DiNozzo caught her eye and they both grinned; it wasn't as easy as it once was, but it was nice to know they could still play with the probie.

"David!" The light-hearted mood was broken as all four agents turned toward the balcony to see NCIS Director Leon Vance looking back down at them. "Do Mossad officers have rank?"

She frowned at the question. "Technically, yes," she finally replied. "But we—"

"What's your rank?" he interrupted.

"_Rav Seren_," she replied. She frowned again before translating. "That is the same as your…major, I believe."

"Good enough," Vance said. Without any further explanation, he ducked back into his office.

Agent DiNozzo turned back to his partner, his eyebrows raised. "Major David," he said slowly before shaking his head. "No, I don't buy it. The idea of you leading troops? Shooting them, sure, but being a leader and a good role model?"

"Then I guess it is a good thing Mossad officers do not lead troops, Tony," Ziva said dryly, her previous good mood all but forgotten as she began to wonder what Vance could possibly have planned that involved her official military rank.

The rest of the morning went by without incidence. DiNozzo caught his partner glancing up toward the balcony a few times, but Director Vance never reappeared, leaving his question about her rank a mystery that they hoped would be solved soon.

"Well, I'm hungry," DiNozzo finally declared around noon, hitting his desk loudly with both hands as he stood from his chair. "I'm going to grab us some lunch from that sandwich place. Ziva, cheesesteak?"

"That doesn't sound very kosher," Director Vance interrupted from the balcony. All three remaining agents slowly turned to face him. "DiNozzo, David, I need to see you in my office." He began to head back to his office before he turned back. "And don't worry, DiNozzo. There's food in there."

"Why do I feel like I've been called to the principal's office?" Tony whispered to Ziva as they made their way up the stairs.

"I do not know what you are talking about," Ziva deadpanned in return.

"You wouldn't," DiNozzo muttered, holding the door to the outer office open for his partner. "I bet your principals were afraid of you." She only rolled her eyes as she strode into Director Vance's private office.

As promised, there was food on the conference table in Vance's office, and not those tiny finger sandwiches they had out at the Christmas party. "I know it's not quite the deli on the corner, DiNozzo, but I figured this should tide you over until it's time to steal from the vending machine again," Director Vance said dryly, gesturing toward the catered spread on the table. "Help yourself."

DiNozzo did so with gusto, but Ziva stood off slightly to the side, eyeing the food suspiciously. None of that escaped Vance's notice. "It's not tainted, Officer David."

"In my experience, food is often offered to soften the blow of bad news," she stated.

"No bad news," he said with a knowing smile that lacked any mirth. "Just a really long meeting. Help yourself." She reluctantly took a plate and joined her partner at the end of the table. "How's the case?" he asked conversationally as he served himself a piece of chicken.

David stiffened. "You did not ask us to your office to ask about our case," she pointed out. "And why is Gibbs not here?"

Vance didn't answer for a moment, chewing his food contemplatively. He turned to DiNozzo. "You always let her talk for you?"

"Usually," the senior field agent said with a shrug. "Saves me the trouble of having to think for myself." He flashed the director a wide grin.

"Cute," Vance said dryly. "Comments like that may have worked with the last director, Agent DiNozzo, but I'm not as easily won over with a joke and pretty smile." He turned back to Officer David. "I had an interesting conversation with Officer Bashan over at the Israeli Embassy this morning." She didn't reply, waiting for him to get to the point. "You've been authorized to go undercover."

"Glad to hear it," she said, her gaze locked on his, unwavering. "Can we get back to our investigation now?"

Vance smiled slightly. "Don't get too excited, Officer David. I told you this would be a long meeting. I spent the entire morning on the phone with Officer Bashan, the SecNav, and the Director of Mossad." He gave David a meaningful look. "Nobody is leaving this room until you two are clear on the mission details. Do you understand me?" They both nodded soberly. "Good. Beginning two weeks from today, a sixteen week course on International Intelligence Gathering will be taught at the National Defense Intelligence College. Until 0930 this morning, it was to be taught by Lt. Colonel Layne Grant of the British Intelligence Corps. The new instructor is Major Ziva Kenig of the _Israeli_ Intelligence Corps." He slid a folder down the table to the Mossad officer.

"I have not been in the Intelligence Corps for twelve years," she stated with a frown. "And that was in an enlisted position. I do not see how I can be expected to know—"

"You have two weeks to prepare, Officer David," Vance interrupted. "Uniforms are being arranged for you as we speak. They're scheduled to arrive at the Embassy on Thursday, which is when Major Kenig will make her first appearance in the United States. You will go to the Embassy at 1300 to collect your uniforms as well as keys to the condo in Georgetown and a car Mossad is providing."

Ziva nodded slightly as she scanned the words in the file; she had been on undercover missions much larger and more elaborate than this, so these basics were nothing new to her. She was a little sad that she would have to leave her apartment and her Mini for the duration of the mission, but once again, that was nothing new.

"DiNozzo," Vance continued, turning to the NCIS special agent. "As of Thursday, you will be Anthony Dinallo."

"Dinallo?" he echoed. "Seriously?"

"There was some serious consideration to 'DiNardo', but Officer Bashan didn't want you distracted by a past mission while on this one," Vance said dryly.

"He knew about that?" DiNozzo asked weakly. Both Ziva and Vance turned to him and rolled their eyes.

"You're an NCIS analyst on the Middle East," Vance continued, ignoring the question. "Three years ago, you were stationed in Tel Aviv for a year—"

"Where Analyst Dinallo met Major Kenig and fell madly and deeply in love," he interrupted sarcastically. "I've seen this movie. Didn't want to, but I did."

"Let me guess—you took a co-ed out on a date and let her pick the movie," Ziva said with a slight smile.

"A mistake I never repeated," he grumbled.

"Assuming Major Kenig does not make you," she countered. He had to grin at that familiar teasing glint in her eye.

Vance cleared his throat, causing both agents to quickly break eye contact with each other and return their attention to the director. "You two have three days to iron out the details of your story and some background information. Work with McGee—we don't think you'll have trained intelligence agents watching you, but I want anyone who knows how to use Google to come up with a couple of hits to Dinallo and Kenig. And until Kenig arrives in DC, no public contact with each other—and that includes trips to each other's apartments for dinner or movies or whatever it is you two do together in your free time."

"Free time?" DiNozzo scoffed, not wanting to even think about how Vance knew what they did outside the office. "Not as if we get much of that on Gibbs' team."

The NCIS director smiled thinly before continuing. "On Thursday, Dinallo will drive Kenig to the Embassy, you'll take the uniforms and whatever else you receive from Mossad to the condo, and then Dinallo will be treating his girlfriend to dinner at Philipina's at 1900. The reservation has already been made. What Dinallo and Kenig do after dinner is entirely up to you. Or rather, them."

"Philipina's?" DiNozzo questioned, staring down at Anthony Dinallo's file. "I don't think Analyst Dinallo can afford that."

"Your credit cards will draw from the NCIS expense account," Vance informed him. He saw the smile that was beginning to form on DiNozzo's face and quickly added, "But don't think we aren't watching what you charge." He studied the two agents in front of him and sighed inwardly, wishing they had two with better track records during undercover missions: David tended to kill people, and DiNozzo got far too involved. He had to remind himself that they were professionals, and they were the best he had. "Good luck, you two," he finally said, dismissing them from his office. "And have fun."


	10. Chapter 9

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 9**

_A/N: Thanks for continuing with all the great reviews! I'm glad so many people are enjoying this story, and I'm feeling bad that I'm going to be abandoning you for a few weeks pretty soon. Sorry._

_Anyway, in response to some comments:_

_1) Ziva's age: since nobody has mentioned a set age or year to reference anything on the show, I figured 33 for a few reasons. First of all, she told Tony she was already involved with Mossad when Tali was killed (Tali was sixteen). With the required military service in Israel being at least two years for women (three for some infantry/combat positions, including intelligence), she would have been twenty-one when she finished that. I decided to make Tali's death a year later, when Ziva was twenty-two. Second, Director Shepard said that she worked anti-terrorism ops with Ziva after 9/11, which means Ziva would have had to have been a fully-trained and vetted Mossad operative in 2001. I figured a few years between Ziva's vendetta (which she admitted to Tony) after Tali's death to that anti-terrorism position would put her at twenty-five or twenty-six when she first met Jen. That's just my thinking. Take it or leave it._

_2) According to Wikipedia (yes, I know, a terribly reputable source...), Mossad does not actually use military ranks. However, as Israel has a compulsory draft system, the vast majority of Mossad agents must have been in the military (and many of the men, at least, likely still are, in a reserve setting), and many would have been in officer positions. I just translated that (for purely fictional purposes) into officer ranks that are only used if necessary, such as for Mossad officers posing as military personnel overseas, like in this story._

_Okay, that's all my points from your reviews (which I am, again, thanking you for). And onto the story...this chapter is dedicated to my roommate, who, like me, watches way too much tv (although not nearly as much as I do) for someone with our level of education, and has fenced with (and against, at different points in time) the Ohio State University Fencing Club, and manages to make fencing and reading sci fi novels look cool; well, as cool as such things can look :) So, roomie, those few lines (and you'll know them when you see them) are my Christmas present to you-in addition to the Ohio State University College of Medicine shirt and bottle of Hawaiian wine, of course. Enjoy! Oh, and happy Christmas Eve to all (in real life, not in the story... it's spring sometime in the story)._

* * *

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs leaned against the railing, silently watching his team of agents below. McGee was seated at DiNozzo's desk, his attention more or less focused on the computer screen in front of him. Ziva was actually sitting on the desk, and Gibbs could tell by the Israeli's laughter that floated up to his ears and the glances away that DiNozzo must have been against the side of the stairs, just out of Gibbs' line of sight.

"They work well together." Gibbs didn't bother nodding or otherwise acknowledging the voice of his director as Vance took up position next to him, similarly watching the agents. The whole situation was somewhat like déjà vu to him as he remembered standing in that same position, watching that same desk, a different director next to him pointing out how well DiNozzo and David were getting along on her first day with the team.

"They've been working well together for years," Gibbs finally said in reply. He heard another bought of laughter and saw Ziva leaning over McGee's shoulder as the junior agent entered something into the computer. He could tell by the loud "Hey!" that followed that they must have been working on DiNozzo's—or, rather, Dinallo's—past. "How is my team going to get anything done with two agents out indefinitely?"

"You'll still have DiNozzo during the day," Vance pointed out. "I can get you another agent until Officer David can return full-time."

"I don't want another agent," Gibbs replied harshly. "I want my team. All three of them."

"Another agent or no other agent, those are your choices," Vance replied, not to be manipulated by Gibbs. "I'm not going to pull DiNozzo and David off their mission before it even starts." Both men silently watched as Ziva stiffened at something McGee was typing. This time, it was DiNozzo's laughter and David's "Hey!" that they heard. "You worried about them?"

"They've been undercover together before," Gibbs replied, his tone of voice doing nothing to convince Vance of his confidence. "They've been _married _undercover before. This should be easy for them. There's nothing to worry about."

"That was a long time ago," Vance said thoughtfully. "Only a few months after David joined the team, if I'm remembering that right. Weren't nearly as close then as they are now."

"Do you think they can do this or not, Leon, because I'm getting mixed signals here."

"David is well-trained," Vance finally said. "Until she joined your team almost four years ago, her entire career had been under one cover or another. DiNozzo, well, to be honest, his track record with undercover ops sucks." Gibbs had to smile slightly at the director's bluntness. "You work with them every day, Gibbs. Is sending them in on this mission together a mistake?"

"They have each other's back," Gibbs replied as the laughter of all three agents drifted up to the balcony. "They'll do anything to keep each other safe."

"And that, Gibbs, is what I'm afraid of."

* * *

"You'll be McDead if you even McThink about it, McGeek," Agent DiNozzo said warningly from his position on top of the short filing cabinet against the back of the stairs. He had sat there without thinking, remembering a time not too long ago when Ziva had been perched there. For some reason, in his mind, if the cabinet could support her, it could support him without any problems. It wasn't until he had already put all of his weight down on it that he remembered that she was much lighter than him. Fortunately, it held. So far.

"I thought we agreed on one 'Mc' per sentence, Tony," Agent McGee said calmly, not bothered by DiNozzo's threats.

"And what is wrong with the fencing club, Tony?" Ziva asked sweetly from her position on his desk. He turned his glare from the back of McGee's head to his partner's innocent expression.

"Because the fencing club is full of dorks, Ziva," he said between clenched teeth. "It's bad enough you wouldn't even let me be on a varsity team—"

"We've been over this already, Tony," McGee interrupted. "It's too hard to falsify records of somebody being a varsity Division I athlete. At least we let you keep your alma mater."

"It's easier to blend in at a big school," DiNozzo replied, repeating his argument from twenty minutes before when McGee tried to give him a degree from some tiny liberal arts college in northern Ohio. "But come on! The fencing club? I bet you were in the fencing club, McLoser."

"Actually, Tony, I was not—"

"Conflicted with the chess team?" DiNozzo shot out, earning him a chuckle from Ziva.

"I know how to fence, Tony," she offered, her grin wide.

"Well, yeah, but for you, it was probably defensive training," he offered, giving in somewhat. "You know, right up there with firing an anti-tank missile and judo or karate or whatever that martial arts thing is that you do. Someone like the probie here," he said, gesturing toward McGee's back, "only joins the fencing club because that's where everyone who has read _A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ hangs out."

"I have read that," Ziva countered.

"Careful, David," DiNozzo said warningly. "You're quickly moving into McGeek territory."

That was enough for McGee. "The Ohio State University Fencing Club picture," he said, leaning back slightly to allow the others to view his work. Ziva leaned over and burst out laughing at the photoshopped picture of a young DiNozzo—Dinallo—in a white fencing uniform, mask under one arm and saber in the other. "Hey!" DiNozzo protested, making McGee and Ziva laugh harder. He softened slightly when he saw the large smile on his partner's face. He didn't care that it was entirely at his expense; anything that could make her that happy was okay in his book.

The three continued to work on Ziva's and Tony's backgrounds the remainder of the afternoon, with the two future undercover agents bouncing ideas off each other as McGee inserted innocuous details about Dinallo and Kenig on various websites; nothing big and elaborate, just the small hits one would expect to find when a seemingly unremarkable person's name were typed into Google. They discovered that there was a twenty-one-year-old college junior in Minnesota named Anthony Dinallo, which actually made things easier; it hid the lack of details on the fictional Dinallo well.

DiNozzo and David were arguing amongst themselves about the first meeting of Dinallo and Kenig—she seriously doubted a trained Intelligence officer would fall into bed with a foreign analyst within hours of meeting—when Gibbs reappeared in the bullpen. "You three having fun over there?" he asked sarcastically. DiNozzo gave him one of his wide trademark grins.

"Actually, yeah, Boss," he replied. "But I was just trying to explain to Ziva that there's no way—"

"Shut up, DiNozzo," Gibbs interrupted. He turned to David, a slight frown on his face. "Have you ever taught anybody anything, Ziva?"

"I taught Tony how to throw a knife," she replied proudly.

"I already knew how to throw a knife," DiNozzo countered.

"In that case, no."

Gibbs sighed. "That's what I was afraid of. You'll have all of next week to work with the instructors at NDIC to come up with a lesson plan, and remember—they have no idea that you're not Major Ziva Kenig of the Israeli Intelligence Corps. In the meantime, you have to learn how to _become_ Major Ziva Kenig. And DiNozzo." He turned to his senior field agent and sighed. "You're going to have to become a damned convincing Middle East analyst before Thursday afternoon. You'll be spending all day Wednesday and Thursday until you two leave for the embassy in MTAC with the analyst group." He barely resisted a smirk at DiNozzo's groan and look of pain. Everyone knew that the intelligence analysts were far from the most interesting people to hang out with.

"Uh, what about me, Boss?" McGee finally asked. Gibbs stared at him for a moment before answering.

"Your job is to make sure these two bozos do their jobs," he finally said. "And that includes making sure those damned web things are convincing." He jabbed a finger in the direction of DiNozzo and David. "And keeping those two safe. If Ziva's right, and they do what they're supposed to, there's going to be a serial killer coming after them, and I do _not_ want them on the wrong end of that."

"Aww, Boss, I didn't know you cared," DiNozzo said with a wide grin. If it weren't for the fact that he was in the back of his workspace, Gibbs would have head-slapped him.

"Do you know how hard it is to train new agents? Now get back to work!"


	11. Chapter 10

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 10**

_A/N: Merry Christmas everyone! The last chapter was a gift for my roommate; this one is for everyone who has been reviewing and saying "I want to see some Tiva action!" or something along those lines. It's not a whole lot of action, but the story is still young... Anyway, enjoy :)_

* * *

Thursday morning found Special Agent Tony DiNozzo filled with a mixture of nervous anticipation, excitement, and an odd sense of dread, part of which could be explained by the fact that he had to spend most of the morning up in MTAC with the Middle East analyst of the antiterrorism task force.

He arrived at his desk early in efforts of getting some late paperwork done before Analyst Herschel arrived at 0900. He didn't know if it was his concentration on his reports or her innate ability to sneak up on him, but he nearly jumped out of his skin when his partner appeared suddenly on the other side of the divider. "I expected you to be sleeping in this morning," Officer Ziva David said casually, her loose curls falling over her shoulder as she leaned on the thin wall.

"I told you to stop doing that!" he exclaimed after he managed to collect himself. Her low chuckle did nothing to make him feel better. "I had some paperwork to take care of, and since I have a date with a very hot IDF officer tonight, I thought I should get it done before I have to be in MTAC."

She smiled thinly at the compliment as she made her way around to the front of her desk, leaning on it as she continued to study him thoughtfully. "I wish you wouldn't look at me like that," he said, feigning annoyance. "It reminds me of the Discovery Channel. 'Watch closely as the female stalks her prey,'" he said, adopting a thick Australian accent. "'The unsuspecting creature—'"

"Discovery Channel, Tony?" she interrupted. "I believe you watch too much television."

He shrugged. "Not a whole lot else to do." It had been awhile, but he still couldn't figure out his seeming dry spell. Sure, there were still dates, and still the random one-night stands, but since Jeanne, he found that it didn't have the same appeal. And more often than not lately, he found himself halfway through a date wishing he were eating pizza or Chinese takeout and teasing his partner.

Ziva arched an eyebrow at his words. "I believe you will have to cut down on the television for the next few weeks," she said, her voice slightly lower than usual, a small smile playing on her lips. "I think Major Kenig will keep you too busy—." She was cut off by a sudden hard smack to the back of the head, and spun to face her boss, an indignant reply ready on her tongue.

"Stop teasing your partner," Agent Gibbs scolded, not giving her a chance to speak. "Shouldn't you be in MTAC, DiNozzo?"

"Finishing up some paperwork, Boss," Tony said quickly. "Herschel doesn't arrive until 0900."

Gibbs nodded slightly as he glanced around the bullpen. "Either of you seen McGee?"

"Uh, not yet, Boss—"

"Boss!" DiNozzo's words were cut off by the sudden exclamation by the very agent they were speaking of. "I think I might have something!"

Gibbs waited for a moment, an expectant look on his face. "Well, McGee?" he finally asked.

"Right," the junior agent said, flushing slightly. "Uh, I was going through some of the interviews again, you know, seeing if there was something that we missed the first time around. Not that I don't think Tony and Ziva didn't do a good job—"

"Today, McGee."

"Sorry, Boss. I, uh, couldn't make out Tony's handwriting in his notes from when he talked to Petty Officer Glover, one of Lt. Sault's clerks, so I went in to the Office of the Director of Ocean Engineering this morning to try to catch her this morning. Turns out, what she said to Tony wasn't that important—"

"Thanks, Probie," DiNozzo said dryly.

"But she did remember something that she had forgotten on Saturday when Tony talked to her," McGee continued. "Glover started at the office around the same time as Sault, so she saw when Sault and Shaw started dating. Well, uh, she remembered Lt. Sault complaining to another one of the personnel officers, an Ensign Maryann Craig, who has since been transferred to Pearl Harbor, about some comments her brother made about her relationship to Lt. Shaw. Apparently, Ensign Jacob Sault didn't approve of his sister dating someone who wasn't Jewish. And, Boss, he was a corpsman for a Marine unit before going to college, and he was qualified as a sharpshooter on the rifle."

"It was not Ensign Sault," Ziva interjected. "I had spoken to him. He did not approve of the relationship when it started, but then he got to know Lt. Shaw and he no longer had problems with the two of them dating."

"When did this conversation take place?" Gibbs demanded.

"Sunday evening, after my meeting at the embassy," she stated. "I went by the hospital to speak some more with Lt. Sault and ask about her synagogue, but she was in the midst of making funeral arrangements. Ensign Sault was in the room, so I spoke to him instead. He admitted that he was uncertain of his sister dating someone who was not Jewish. He also admitted to knowing how to fire a rifle and knew that that would make him a suspect. However, since meeting Lt. Shaw, he no longer had reservations about their relationship. In fact, he encouraged them to elope."

"Him saying that after the fact doesn't necessarily make it true," DiNozzo pointed out with a frown.

"No, it does not," she acknowledged. "However, he was staying with the lieutenants while he searched for an apartment near Bethesda for next year, which I doubt he would have done if he did not like Lt. Shaw. He also said that Lts. Shaw and Sault travelled to Columbus last fall for the Penn State-Ohio State football game."

"Ouch," DiNozzo said, flinching visibly at those words. "That was not a good day for the Buckeyes. We were leading until the fourth quarter—"

"Don't care, DiNozzo," Gibbs interrupted, all but glaring at the Mossad liaison. "Why didn't you mention this earlier? Or at least log the interview?"

"I had forgotten," she admitted. "He did not give any information I felt relevant to the case, so by the time I arrived here on Monday, it had fallen from my mind that we had even spoken."

"Slipped your mind," DiNozzo said automatically.

"What?"

"You said 'fallen from my mind'. The expression is 'slipped my mind'." He turned to Gibbs, an almost hopeful expression on his face. "You know, Boss, if you need me to go to Ohio State to interview Ensign Sault again—." He stopped talking when Gibbs' hand made contact with the back of his head.

"Visit your alma mater on your own time, DiNozzo," he said. "I don't think we need to speak to Ensign Sault. Ziva, next time, log your interviews. It'll save McGee some time."

"Sorry, Tim," she apologized.

"No big deal," he replied, waving off her apology.

Gibbs turned his attention to DiNozzo and David, both leaning casually against the fronts of their desks. "Don't you two have people to learn how to become?" he demanded. He took a sip of coffee to hide the smirk on his face as he watched them scatter in opposite directions.

* * *

"Your flight just landed," Agent DiNozzo said calmly to Officer David as he descended the stairs from MTAC, glad to be done with that particular aspect of his training. He frowned as Ziva glanced up at him. "And you're looking way too good for someone who just got off a trans-Atlantic flight." Her makeup, the little bit she wore, was still immaculate, her hair falling just so, her skirt and shirt still looking neatly pressed.

"Maybe I perked up in the bathroom at the airport," she countered.

"Freshened, Ziva. Although I guess the other way works too, just not quite in the way that you're thinking." She frowned as she tried to figure out what he was referring to. "How long is it going to take you to get your bags and clear customs before I can pick you up and get you to the embassy?"

"I think I will need another half an hour to forty-five minutes," she replied. She gave him a teasing smile. "But I should think Analyst Dinallo and Major Kenig will want some time to get reacquainted after their six-month absence from each other." He grinned; he liked the way she was thinking.

A quick smack to the back of the head erased his smile. "Thirty minutes," Gibbs stated as he rounded the corner. "Dinallo and Kenig can get reacquainted after she picks up her stuff from the embassy."

"Right, Boss," DiNozzo said quickly. He gave his partner another quick glance before returning his attention to the computer screen.

Half an hour later, DiNozzo was behind the wheel of the Mustang Vance had told him now reflected his new identity's registration, Ziva leaning against the glass in the passenger seat, two suitcases of her clothes in the car's small trunk as they made their way toward the Israeli embassy. He was staying with the flow of traffic, not making any attempts to get there any sooner. Now that the mission was beginning, he was finding that the feeling of nervous anticipation from the morning had changed entirely to nerves. He felt woefully underprepared for his assumed role, and still found himself wondering where this mission was going to be taking him and Ziva. As he often did when he found himself in an uncomfortable position, he started talking.

"Are you sure about the housing arrangements?" he asked. Seeing the confused expression on his partner's face, he continued, "I mean, Dinallo and Kenig have been 'dating' for awhile-if you can call whatever we-they-whoever-have been doing with an ocean between them for two years dating. Wouldn't they be staying together?"

She frowned at his explanation. "Have you ever had a long-distance relationship, Tony?"

"I hooked up with a girl in New York the night before I had to return to Columbus for winter quarter my senior year," he said. "She kept calling me every day for at least a week. Does that count?"

Ziva rolled her eyes. "With a long-distance relationship, there is a certain...awkwardness when meeting face-to-face for the first time in months," she said. "I do not think speeding things at that point is the best thing. I will have the apartment from the embassy, and you will have your apartment."

"Rushing," he corrected before glancing over at her. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."

She rolled her eyes, not about to be baited by him. "The embassy will be closed by the time we arrive, Tony," she said, changing the subject.

It bothered him sometimes-okay, all the time-that she never talked about her personal life, especially with how much she tried to pry into his, but he wasn't about to get into an argument immediately before beginning what could be a very long undercover mission. "Analyst Dinallo doesn't speed," he said instead, shooting her a wide grin. She rolled her eyes and looked away.

After parking in the spot directed to them by the embassy guard, Tony casually walked over to the passenger side of the car, taking Ziva's hand in his as they headed for the entrance. "Tony, what are you doing?" she asked with a frown, staring down at their intertwined fingers and finding herself strangely unwilling to make him let go.

"I haven't seen you in six months, remember?" he said with a grin. "We may still be the the 'awkward' period, but I should think that gives me the right to at least hold your hand."

She smiled, more to herself than him, at his words. Having been at the embassy several times in the past, she knew where the cameras were located, so she decided to give the guards a little show—and throw Tony off in the process. Their hands still linked, she swung herself so they were face to face, and rose up on her toes to kiss him lightly, letting her lips linger on his for a few seconds longer than necessary. "I have not seen you in six months," she countered at his surprised expression. "I should think that gives me the right to kiss you."

He chuckled at hearing his words thrown back at him as they resumed their walk toward the front door. "Here goes nothing," he muttered as he opened the door for her.

The young guard standing just inside the door straightened to attention as the pair entered the embassy. "_Rav Seren_ Kenig? Follow me please, ma'am."


	12. Chapter 11

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 11**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo glanced around the Israeli embassy, getting a feel for his surroundings as the young IDF guard led them into the building. "Officer Bashan's office, ma'am," the guard said, holding open an impressive-looking door. "He's in charge of operations for the embassy."

"Thank you, _Rav Turai_," Ziva said politely. She gave a slight nod to Bashan's receptionist before turning her attention to the elder Mossad officer standing behind said receptionist.

"_Rav Seren_ Kenig," he said pleasantly. "I trust your flight went well?"

"It was long, but that was to be expected, sir," she replied with a small nod. "Officer Bashan, this is Dr. Anthony Dinallo. He is an analyst at NCIS." Knowing her inflictions the way he did, DiNozzo couldn't help but hear the slight humor in her voice, both at his address and at the fact that she was making the introduction. When they had been creating background information, Ziva had sarcastically suggested that Analyst Dinallo have a Ph.D. in international relations, and DiNozzo just as sarcastically agreed. McGee took this one step further and even wrote an abstract of a Ph.D. dissertation and posted it online, much to DiNozzo's chagrin—it just meant he had to be that much more knowledgeable. As far as standing in Bashan's office pretending that she had never met the man, well, she had never given the names of any of the Mossad officers in the embassy, but he guessed from her attitude and Vance's comments a few days before that Bashan was her usual contact.

"Your belongings arrived earlier today," Bashan was saying. "They are in my private office. Come, please," he said gesturing toward a set of wooden doors to their left. "Thank you, _Rav Turai_," he said, dismissing the guard.

They entered the office, closing the doors behind them. "None of the guards working today have been here on any of your previous visits," Bashan said, answering DiNozzo's silent question of why Ziva had bothered to introduce him to someone who clearly already knew who he was. "Special Agent DiNozzo. It is nice to meet you. I have heard many things."

"I wish I could say the same, Officer Bashan," DiNozzo replied with a slight frown as he shook the Mossad officer's hand.

"You do not have the resources I do," Bashan said, a note of amusement in his voice. He turned back to David. "Your things," he said, gesturing toward a trunk in the corner.

She nodded as she crossed the room, kneeling in front of the industrial-looking thick plastic military crate. The first thing she saw was the bluish-gray of an officer's field uniform shirt. She fingered the fabric, almost reverently. _It feels the same_, she mused.

"It has been awhile since you have been in uniform, no?" Bashan noted with amusement. Ziva nodded.

"And that uniform was green," she replied.

_"I'm glad you decided to leave the IDF and go into Mossad. You're much too beautiful for that drab olive green."_

_Ziva laughed as her eyes met her sister's in the mirror. "Only three more years, Tali, and you'll be the one in olive drab."_

She blinked aside the memory as she moved past the officer's field uniform, giving it only a cursory glance as she continued through the contents of the crate. It looked as if all her required uniforms were there—the field uniform, dress uniform, and even a mess dress uniform, all with the gold leaf of a _rav seren_ and the proper pins and patches of an intelligence officer. She saw that they didn't miss any detail; she had all the ribbons and awards that she had earned during her years in the intelligence corps, as well as a number of others that would be expected of an officer with her rank, had she stayed in the IDF. They had also included the proper belts, boots, dress shoes, and a green beret identical to the one she last wore twelve years before.

"What is this?" she asked, pulling out what appeared to be a long, thin package wrapped in blue fabric. A smile appeared on her lips as she unwrapped the cloth.

"What is it?" DiNozzo asked, leaning closer. It looked like two tall silver candlesticks to him.

"My Shabbat candles," she explained. He saw the amused remembrance in her eyes. "My aunt Nettie—you remember her, yes?" He grimaced, remembering the misunderstanding over a phone call years before. "She sent them to me when I left the house at eighteen, saying that now that I was on my own, I needed my own Shabbat candlesticks." She smiled as she rewrapped the silver candlesticks. "I guess she did not remember that IDF privates were not on their own." She continued to go through the trunk. A quizzical expression crossed her face. DiNozzo was about to ask what it was when she pulled out a pile of framed photographs.

He craned his neck to look at them over her shoulder. "You look so young," he said, almost in amazement, as he studied the picture.

"I was young," Ziva countered, her eyes still on that photo. "I was eighteen." She had been leaning against a tan Humvee in that olive drab uniform of an enlisted IDF solider, the rank on her sleeve identifying her as private, a green beret tucked into the shoulder loops, a rifle of some sort leaning against her leg, her thick dark hair pulled into a simple ponytail. She wore a wide grin on her face, one different from any that Tony had ever seen. She had her arm over the shoulder of another girl in an identical uniform, who in turn had her arms around the waist of a third young soldier.

After another few seconds of studying the photo, she moved it aside to see the next. "Oh," she said softly.

_"Ziva!" her mother called out. The young IDF soldier groaned inwardly at the sight of the camera in her mother's hand. "Come, Ziva! Let's get a picture!"_

_"_Ima_, no," she protested, slinging her rifle over her shoulder. "I just got off the train, I am tired, and I just want a shower and to change into clean clothes."_

_"One picture," her mother insisted. "Tali! Come over here and sit on the steps next to your sister. I want a picture of my girls."_

"Tali?" DiNozzo guessed. He figured that would be the only explanation for her reaction, and probably the only reason Ziva had a picture of herself as a young soldier, sitting on the steps to what looked like a house, a rifle on her lap and an even younger girl resting her head on her shoulder.

Ziva nodded. "I was nineteen, she was thirteen. I was home for Passover, and my mother insisted on a picture. She liked to take pictures."

"She looked like you," Tony commented softly. Ziva only nodded before setting the rest of the pictures aside. She would go through them later.

She reached the bottom of the trunk and pulled out one more item, laughing as she did so. "I believe this is for you," she commented, tossing what looked like a cloth Frisbee to her partner. He caught it and looked at her questioningly.

"Is this what I think it is?" he asked with a frown.

"If we are going to be making regular appearances at a synagogue, you will need a _kippah_," she informed him with a nod.

"I thought it was called a yarmulke?"

"That is the Yiddish word," she informed him. "It is more traditional to use the Hebrew _kippah_ in Israel. Here, you will probably hear 'yarmulke' more commonly." She pulled out a note, which Tony could see was written in Hebrew. "I believe my father included it so you would not have to wear one of the communal ones at the synagogue."

"I guess I should thank him for that," Tony grumbled, not knowing how he felt about the fact that Ziva's father knew they were going undercover as a couple. He tried placing the small skullcap on his head, only to have it slide off. "How does this work, anyway?"

She looked over at him and laughed. "I will help you when we go to services." She turned to Officer Bashan, who had been silently observing as the two younger agents went through the trunk. "Are the services on Friday or Saturday?"

"Saturday," Bashan replied. "The synagogue has both, but Saturday mornings would be more amendable to your schedule as an instructor. I have already been in contact with Rabbi Grossman and informed him that Major Kenig was coming into the country today and would be at the service on Saturday morning. He will be looking for you." His eyes flickered over to DiNozzo. "I believe you should hint to him that you would be interested in the couple's classes."

She nodded slightly. "The personnel here at the embassy, do they attend this synagogue?"

"Many do," he confirmed with a nod. "The ones who know you, I have informed of your general mission. They know not to engage you." He paused. "I will be at the Saturday morning service this week. If you have not had contact with Rabbi Grossman by the time I find you after the service, I will introduce you."

She nodded in reply as she closed the lid of the trunk. "My apartment?" she prompted.

"The embassy has several condominiums three blocks from the synagogue for visiting diplomats from Israel," he informed her. "You will have one of those for the duration of the mission. It has been prepared for you already. There are several Shabbat modifications—"

"I don't have a problem flickering a light switch on Saturday," Ziva interrupted with a frown.

"Flicking or flipping," DiNozzo corrected without thinking. Both Mossad officers turned to him, Bashan with his eyebrows raised and an annoyed expression on Ziva's face. "Just saying," he muttered. Ziva rolled her eyes and turned back to Bashan, a challenging expression on her face.

"I realize that," he said diplomatically. "However, we do have many guests who stay in these apartments who are more…observant than you. As a result, we do have Shabbat lamps and clocks." He stopped at the expression on Ziva's face. "_Rav Turai_ Diamant will point them out when he takes you to the apartment." He walked over to his desk and pulled a key ring out of his top drawer. "Your car for the mission. The blue BMW 135i out back. Diamant will show it to you."

"Nice," DiNozzo said approvingly. "Trading in the Mini for a Beemer." Ziva smiled slightly as she accepted the keys from Bashan.

"Perhaps I should not tell you of the other cars I have driven on other missions," she said to him. "I would not want you to be jealous." She turned back to Bashan. "And the surveillance?"

He blinking, feigning misunderstanding. "Surveillance?"

"On the apartment," she clarified. "Perhaps the car as well, although I care less about that." He continued to wear a blank expression, which she rolled her eyes to. "I am a Mossad officer, Bashan. I know you do not house dignitaries without ensuring their safety through constant surveillance."

"The condominiums are wired," he finally admitted. "It is transmitted here."

"And how do we turn it off?" He just stared at her, his expression unreadable. She blew air through her lips, annoyed. "I will not have nineteen-year-old corporals watching me in my home."

"There is a second switch by the sink disposal that does not appear to do anything," Bashan informed her. "When the switch is in the off position, the system is active."

"You keep something like that out in the open?" DiNozzo asked with a frown.

"Plain sight is often the best place to hide something," David explained. "And with a switch, a guest will try to turn it on, and when nothing happens, they will turn it back off. People seem to like switches to be in the off position." He nodded his understanding as she turned back to Bashan. "That feed will have to go to NCIS as well. The live feed, without a delay."

"We will arrange it," he said with a nod. "If there is nothing else, I will have _Rav Turai_ Diamant take you to your apartment." He pressed the button for an intercom and gave a short command in Hebrew before turning back to his guests. "I understand you have dinner reservations for tonight. There are some items in the closet I believe you will find satisfactory for such an occasion." He smiled thinly as the door opened, revealing the same young soldier who had escorted them in. "_Rav Seren_ Kenig, good luck to you," he said, shaking the hands of both agents in turn. "And _Dr_. Dinallo," he said, putting the slightest emphasis on DiNozzo's new title, "it was nice to meet you. _Lehitraot_." He waited until the door closed behind the two agents before he picked up the phone and dialed out.


	13. Chapter 12

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 12**

_A/N: I'm leaving today! I'm super excited and kinda nervous and still need to pack, but I am leaving today. I will still have internet access for a couple of days (I hope...) before I go off into the bush of Papua New Guinea, so I'll be posting a few more chapters before all communication ceases for six weeks. They'll just be posted at very irregular times. If you're really good, maybe I'll post one during my layover in LA tonight._

* * *

Agent DiNozzo rolled down the window of his Mustang and smiled at the rent-a-cop in the tiny parking booth. "Anthony Dinallo," he introduced smoothly. "I'm here to see Major Ziva Kenig."

The more-than-slightly pudgy guard frowned as he pecked at the laptop computer occupying most of the shelf in front of him. "Can you spell that?"

"Dinallo, or Kenig?" DiNozzo asked, mentally rolling his eyes. "She just moved in today. I was here earlier, actually, helping her with her suitcases." He had joined the line of cars--Diamant's nondescript embassy vehicle leading Ziva's new BMW and Tony's very old Mustang--to the Georgetown condominium complex. During that drive, as short as it had been, DiNozzo came to the conclusion that Ziva's insane driving must be some sort of innate Israeli trait.

And now he was back here, at that same security barrier to the parking garage, obviously not going to be waved in without a second glance as he was earlier, now that he had lost his Israeli escorts. "Oh, Kenig, I found it," the guard finally said, ignoring Tony's question. "Uh, unit 1502. Here's your visitor's pass for your car. You can park—"

"In the visitor's spaces on the first floor," DiNozzo finished for him. "Yes, I was just here a few hours ago. I haven't forgotten." He didn't wait for a reply as he reached over and accepted the bright pink hang tag. The guard frowned slightly, but didn't say anything further as he raised the stripped fiberglass barrier.

As he was a few hours before, DiNozzo was impressed by the building's interior, leaving no doubt to residents and visitors alike the exclusiveness of the people who lived there. It was all very austere, very hushed, giving the NCIS agent the impression that if he spoke a decibel too loudly, it would echo off the polished surfaces for all to hear, much as it had done in his father's house growing up. He pushed aside thoughts of his childhood as he stepped into an equally polished and equally silent elevator, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor.

He walked to the end of the hall, not hesitating as he rapped on the door of 1502. A few seconds passed before he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching the door. The deadbolt disengaged, followed by a somewhat distant-sounding call of, "It is open." He smirked slightly at the thought of catching Ziva unprepared as he entered the apartment.

When he had helped move Ziva's things in earlier that day, he had barely enough time to drop off the suitcases before he realized how late it was and quickly left for his own apartment to get ready for the dinner, but now that he was here relatively alone, he took the time to admire his surroundings. When Bashan had told them that the condo was used for visiting dignitaries and diplomats, he hadn't been kidding; the unit, had it been on the market, would have easily been a million and a half, if not more. He passed through the spacious kitchen, smirking slightly when he noticed that the switch Bashan had referred to was now in the "on" position, and entered the dining room, taking a moment to admire the stately-yet-modern furniture and immaculate place settings.

After the dining room was the living room, complete with soft leather furniture and a parlor grand piano in the corner. He smiled as he pressed a few random keys, impressed with himself that he remembered the differences between the various sizes of pianos from the explanation his mother gave him when he was seven or eight. This one was almost identical to the one in his own house growing up, down to the deep, rich brown color of the wood. It seemed very Ziva, much more so than the upright piano she had in her Silver Spring apartment, which was too small for anything larger.

"Are you going to play a song for me?" He spun quickly at the sound of his partner's teasing voice, his jaw all but hanging open as his mind registered what he was seeing. It was Ziva alright, but the Ziva he had only seen on undercover missions, when she managed to flaunt how well Mossad had trained her to blend in with the ridiculously rich—and often criminal—people she had once made a living tracking. The dark brown dress hugged and fell everywhere it was supposed to, her black curls shinier than usual as they cascaded over her shoulders, her features highlighted by the small amount of makeup she wore. "Wipe your mouth, Tony, you are drooling."

He grinned in reply. "I was just thinking about how great that dress would look—"

"On the floor, Tony?" she finished, her eyes shining with humor at the familiar innuendo. "Would you mind walking to the restaurant? It is only a few blocks away, and it is a nice evening."

"Sure," he replied, figuring if she was up for walking a couple of blocks in those shoes and that dress, that he had no right to complain. She smiled at him again as she grabbed the keys and a designer purse of some sort from the front table and headed for the door. He followed, admiring the view until she turned and gave him an exasperated look. He grinned, stepping forward to walk alongside her.

When they were about a block from the restaurant, he smiled over at her and offered his arm. With a smile of her own, she slipped her arm through his, her fingers gently resting against the fabric of his suit jacket.

"Welcome to Philipina's," an almost comic-looking maître d' with a pencil mustache and slicked-back hair greeted as they crossed the threshold.

"Reservation for Dinallo," Tony said smoothly, hoping that the worry in his voice didn't show. Being recognized was an irrational fear, and he knew that, but if he was, the mission could be over before it began. He didn't think it was the same maitre d', and it had been years since he had been in that restaurant, but that had also been part of another undercover assignment—with Jeanne.

He pushed the thought aside as the couple was led to their table and handed their menus. He barely listened as their host told them that their waiter would be with them shortly, his hand resting gently on Ziva's leg.

Ziva glanced over at her partner when she felt the warmth of his hand through the fabric of the dress. He was good at this; she knew that from experience. Playing a couple was a game of subtleties—a lingering touch here, a meaningful glance there—and despite his lack of training in subterfuge, DiNozzo had it down pat. An Oscar-winning performance, if the slight heat she felt spreading through her was any indication. She wondered what that said about _her_, that somebody as well trained as she was, was reacting that way to what she knew was an act.

His hand slid off her thigh as the waiter appeared. "We'll have a bottle of Cristal," DiNozzo said before the waiter got the chance to ask. Ziva raised her eyebrows; she had seen the price of that particular champagne on the menu.

"Are you sure…?" she began, her voice trailing off as Tony looked over at her and smiled.

"We're celebrating," he reminded her, bring her fingers up to his lips for a light kiss. "It's not every day my beautiful and intelligent girlfriend flies over from Israel."

She smiled back at him, leaning over as if to kiss his cheek. "Vance is going to kill you when he gets this bill," she murmured into his ear. She lingered a second longer than necessary, enjoying the feel of his smile against his cheek before she straightened in her chair. He gave her a meaningful smile in return, making her wonder for an instant if he somehow knew what she was thinking.

They placed their orders and sat in companionable silence as the waiter poured the chilled champagne into their glasses. "A toast," DiNozzo says, his flute held slightly in the air. "To the end of a separation that was much too long." As she smiled and gently clicked her glass to his, she wondered at his choice of words; they had been tossing around the 'six months' thing since the embassy that afternoon, a length of time they decided seemed reasonable for a busy analyst and even busier intelligence officer, so his sudden change to a more generic term made her wonder in the back of her mind if he was speaking truthfully, as Tony DiNozzo instead of Anthony Dinallo, if he was referring to the change of their relationship, the distance between them, that took place while he was dating Jeanne and never quite returned to normal. "At least this time, you flew to me," he joked as he lowered his glass.

She arched an eyebrow, pushing those thoughts out of her head as she returned to character. "If you remember, we both flew to each other last time," she said lightly. "Fiji is not within driving distance to Tel Aviv."

He grinned widely at the joke, his fingers again lightly brushing against her arm as their appetizer arrived, reluctant to break contact. He loved the way her skin felt and vowed to take full advantage of the fact that, for the duration of this mission, she wouldn't push his hand away with that annoyed expression on her face.

Their conversation over dinner was light and somewhat ridiculous in its fantasy—they talked about her plans to meet with the other instructors to discuss lessons, his schedule in the analyst division at NCIS, what DC landmarks she wanted to see during their fictitious 'three-day-weekend' (Gibbs had made it very clear he expected both of them to be at work on Friday), and if she needed to go shopping for anything else that she would need during her four month stay in the country. Everything was exactly as it should have been between a couple accustomed to long-distance dating.

DiNozzo offered the new credit card in his new identity to the waiter, hoping fervently that Vance's statement about it being tied to the expense account was accurate. Fortunately, the transaction went through without any difficulties, and the two NCIS agents soon found themselves stepping out into the darkness of the Georgetown evening, Tony's hand resting gently at the small of Ziva's back. She shivered slightly as they began their walk back to her new apartment, prompting Tony to peel off his jacket and drape it over her exposed shoulders. "Here," he said gently, his hand sliding down her arm as he released the fabric.

"Thank you," she softly, pulling the flaps of the oversized suit coat together, suddenly feeling strangely awkward.

"So," Tony said, sounding just as uncomfortable. "That's quite the kitchen you have in your new place. Two refrigerators and two ovens? Are they planning on you doing a lot of entertaining?"

"It is a kosher kitchen, Tony," she replied, glad to have something to talk and think about other than how her partner's performance at dinner had affected her. "Meat and dairy are stored and cooked separately. There are also two sets of dishes and utensils for that same reason."

"Huh," DiNozzo said thoughtfully, appreciating the irony of a kosher kitchen being used by somebody who had flaunted taking a large bite of a slice of pepperoni pizza the first day they met.

"Although a dinner party does not sound like a bad idea," she said suddenly.

"You mean like having the team over some time?" He couldn't help but remember the first time she had done that—he hadn't been invited.

"Well, yes," she said. "But I was actually thinking that once we established ourselves in the courses at the synagogue, we could have the rabbi and his wife and a few other couples over for dinner. With the surveillance already set up in the apartment, it would be a good chance to observe them and get a feel for the environment of some members of the congregation."

"That's a good idea," he said, impressed and slightly put off by the fact that he hadn't thought about it first. Wasn't he supposed to be the senior field agent, the one with more than fifteen years of experience in police work?

They arrived back at the door of her temporary home, that feeling of awkwardness over both of them once again. He wondered what it was about her that suddenly had him feeling like a teenaged boy. His mind flashed back to that unexpected kiss outside the embassy that afternoon. Although he was sure it was somehow related to their mission, he couldn't help but wonder if that was the whole reason. He contemplated kissing her again to test that theory—.

"Goodnight, Tony," Ziva finally said, breaking his reverie and forcing him back into the moment. Little did she realize that her thoughts were closely mirroring his, that she was thinking about that kiss and the smile on Tony's face as she had pulled away. However, that was part of establishing themselves as a couple, both to each other and to the guards who were monitoring the video feed at the embassy. Here, standing just outside her door in a high-rise Georgetown condominium, with no one of interest watching, she couldn't justify it, especially if she had just been imagining his reaction. "I will see you in the morning, yes?"

"Yeah," he finally said, his gaze drifting briefly down to her lips before returning to her dark eyes. "I'll see you at work. Goodnight." He smiled weakly at her before turning and heading back for the elevator.

"You're a damned chicken," he muttered to himself as the elevator doors closed in front of him. "You should have kissed her." It was an unfamiliar feeling for him, this hesitation around a woman, but he knew that he had to tread lightly with this one; the last thing he needed was to fall in love during another undercover mission.


	14. Chapter 13

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 13**

_A/N: Well, I guess you guys were good enough to deserve a bonus chapter before I get on a plane for a very long flight to the land down under (my next stop is Brisbane, Australia). No guarantees about when you get another one, so try not to complain too loudly if you have to wait awhile._

* * *

Despite her best efforts to the contrary, Ziva David couldn't stop her eyes from moving over to her partner throughout the day as they sat at their respective desks, working on paperwork she couldn't recall if asked. Their "date" the night before, despite being entirely scripted as the opening act for the play that was their undercover mission, was the best one she had been on in…well, as long as she could remember. Tony had been the perfect gentleman: kind, considerate, a good listener, a witty conversationalist—in other words, completely different from his everyday persona. No, that wasn't fair; he had shown himself on many occasions to be deeper and more complex than a cursory glance would give him credit for.

"You need something, Ziva?" he asked, accenting the syllables of her first name in that way she simultaneously loved and hated. He looked over at her, a wide grin on his face.

"I was just wondering if you were nearing a halting point," she said, ignoring the grin. "We will have to leave in less than half an hour to ensure that we have enough time to prepare for Shabbat before the sun sets." They had decided a few days before that he would stay at her place—or, rather, Major Kenig's place—in appearances of observing the Sabbath before going to the service on Saturday morning.

"Yeah, no problem," he replied, giving her a wide grin as he made his way to the front of his desk. "I don't know if I said this before, but I've been looking forward to this slumber party—." His words were cut off by a swift smack to the back of the head. Grimacing briefly, he said, "Nice to see you, too, Boss."

"You're not leaving work early to have fun, DiNozzo. Ziva, I expect you'll be teaching him enough to be able to pass as an ex-pat who spent a year living in Israel."

"Of course," David replied, somewhat defensively.

"And McGee and Abby will be coming over tomorrow afternoon to discuss what you've found," Gibbs continued, again studying DiNozzo. "Both of you, keep your eyes open at the synagogue tomorrow. I'm not expecting our suspected serial killer to stand up and introduce himself, but I want to know about anything—"

"Hinky?" DiNozzo interrupted, using one of Abby Sciuto's favorite words. Seeing the glare on Gibbs' face, his grin dropped. "Sorry, Boss."

"Tony! Ziva!" Both agents turned to see the aforementioned forensic scientist all but running out of the elevator toward them. Since he was the only one of the two standing, he steeled himself for the all-out embrace that he knew was coming. "I'm so glad I caught you two before you left! I was worried that you'd already be out of here, you know, so you had enough time to prepare dinner and light the Shabbat candles and say the _Kiddush_—"

"Abby," Ziva interrupted. "I thought you were Catholic. How do you know so much about Shabbat traditions?"

"I looked it up," Abby said brightly. "I didn't really have anything better to do, since you guys aren't working on anything with a lot of forensics and your team is, like, ninety percent of my job. Actually, I think it's closer to eighty. Maybe eighty-five. I could probably figure out exactly how much of my job is related to Team Gibbs by looking at the number of tests—"

"Abs," Gibbs interrupted, sounding exasperated. "Is there a reason you came up here?"

"Oh! Right. Well, I've been working on a new surveillance camera for Tony, because the last time we asked him to wear the glasses he didn't stop complaining about it for a week. Apparently, it's a big deal to him that people know he has 20/10 vision, and—"

"Thanks, Abs," Tony said dryly. She grinned at him.

"Anyway, after much trial-and-error, we came up with the lapel-pin camera." She produced what appeared to be a simple gold and black Ohio State pin. "You see?" she said, beaming. "We made it specifically with Tony in mind, you know, going with the whole Ohio State theme. I thought an American flag might be appropriate, but that is just _so_ 'I'm running for political office', and that is _not_ Tony at all."

"Cool," DiNozzo said, reaching for the pin. He turned it in his hand a few times, examining it closely. It was a very simple block O, instantly recognizable to anybody familiar with The Ohio State University. The lens was located in the middle of the O, and if you didn't know it was a camera, there'd be no way of telling.

"You have to keep this in your breast pocket," Abby continued, handing him a black box about the six of a miniature deck of cards. "That's the recorder. Unlike the glasses, we can't transmit the feed. Also, it's not as accurate as the glasses. With those, we literally see everything you see, because we catch everything when your head turns and everything. Here, we only get what your chest is pointed toward, so if you see anything that looks the even slightest bit hinky—"

"I'll turn my entire body toward it," Tony finished. "Got it. Thanks, Abs."

"You're welcome," she said with a wide grin and slight curtsey. "So you guys are really going to Temple and wear a yarmulke and everything? Well, I mean, Tony would be the one wearing a yarmulke, because only guys wear them, right? At least, that's all you see in TV, but I couldn't really find anything in my research—"

"Synagogue, not Temple," DiNozzo interrupted, glancing over at his partner, remembering her saying those words to Gibbs the week before. He would have to ask her about that tonight; he could have sworn he had heard Jewish coworkers in the past talking about going to Temple. "And yes, I have a yarmulke to wear, although Ziva told me that in Israel it's called a _kippah._" He shot a wide grin over to Officer David. "See, Ziva? I _do_ pay attention to you. Sometimes."

"I am touched, Tony," she said dryly, rolling her eyes. She turned back to the forensic scientist. "Going to the synagogue is not that big of a deal, Abby. It is not much unlike your—mass?" DiNozzo nodded that that was the correct word. "Only it is on Saturday instead of Sunday. If you want, we can tell you all about it when you and McGee come over tomorrow afternoon. But right now, we must be going if we are going to have the Shabbat candles lit before sunset." She smiled her goodbyes at the team and headed for the elevator, her partner in tow, an overnight duffle slung over his shoulder.

Abby Sciuto watched the elevator doors slide closed behind the pair before she turned to McGee. "Talk about your sexual tension all built up. They are so going to be hooking up on this mission."

* * *

"I didn't think it was possible, Ziva, but your driving is actually _worse_ today," DiNozzo commented after a blare of horns followed their sudden crossing of three lanes of rush-hour traffic. In the back of his mind, he wondered why he chose that particular moment to make a joke about his partner's driving; not that he was worried about distracting her—she had proven herself capable of her usual NASCAR-esque driving while doing three or four other things—but traffic patterns and getting in an accident were far from the first thing on his mind. Maybe it was just easier to comment on what was immediately apparent than what he assumed they were both really thinking: they were on their way to Ziva's ridiculously luxurious condo, where they were both spending the night. A million different ends to this story played through DiNozzo's mind, at least nine hundred thousand of which ended in tangled sheets and irate neighbors shouting for them to keep it down.

"I am driving a BMW with a sports package and diplomatic plates," Ziva replied, shooting him a victorious smile before she again cut through two lanes of traffic without advanced warning. "If that is not the time to drive as I was trained, I do not what is."

"Maybe when there's actually a danger of IEDs," he snapped back, remembering her excuse for driving the way she did. "Ziva!" he exclaimed as his head snapped forward with her sudden braking.

"Sorry," she muttered, her voice completely different than the bragging bravado of a moment before. DiNozzo studied her, seeing her dark eyes focused on the road in front of them, her knuckles white where they gripped the gear shift, and realized she was probably thinking the same thing as him. Maybe her insane driving was a way to distract her from wondering what the next twenty-five or so hours would bring—or an effort to disarm him so _he_ wouldn't be wondering such thoughts. _Too late_, he mused. _That damage is done_. As he had joked the week before, he still had very vivid memories of her naked, and the thought of seeing her like that again—.

"Are you coming?" He blinked in surprise at his partner's irate voice and realized that they were parked in the garage at her new condo, the last part of the drive blurred somewhere under those _very_ vivid fantasies of the night to come.

"Sorry," he muttered, grabbing his bag from the trunk of the car before following her to the elevators.

Once inside the apartment, Tony watched as Ziva did a quick search of her surroundings under the guise of putting away her gear, turning on lights, and walking to the study to boot up her computer. He smiled thinly at the routine, wondering if it was the unfamiliar surroundings or something she did every day when she got home. Knowing her, it was probably an every day thing. "There is a salmon fillet in the refrigerator," she said as she returned to the kitchen, her hair now loose from its previous braid, her shoes kicked off. "Is that okay for dinner?"

"Sure," he replied, not even bothering to hide that he was studying her. It wasn't that she was noticing, however, as her gaze was on everything except him. He couldn't help but smirk; was Ziva David, Mossad officer extraordinaire, cool and collected in the most dangerous of all situations, able to defuse a bomb with a knife as she balanced on an exposed ceiling beam, _uncomfortable_ in a Georgetown condo in his presence?

He continued to watch as she silently pulled ingredients out of one of the refrigerators: the salmon fillet, some basil, fresh linguine, and a bottle of wine. "It is a pinot grigio," she said as he lifted the bottle to examine the label. "It is not a bottle of Cristal, but it is good with salmon. It is rather sweet, though, so if you would prefer something else—"

"This is fine," he interrupted, glancing over at her to see her digging through the well-stocked pantry for some more ingredients. "Where are the wine glasses?"

"I am not sure," she admitted. "Feel free to look for them." By the time he had opened enough cabinets to find the wide assortment of glasses and remove two for white wine, Ziva was nowhere to be found. He turned a few times, her name on his lips before he spotted her in the living room. Her gaze was down, focused on the two candlestick holders he had seen in the embassy, now complete with long white tapers. As he watched, she struck a match, lighting both candles before shaking out the match with a confident flick of the wrist. An almost ethereal look was on her face as her lips moved silently, reciting what he assumed to be some sort of Hebrew prayer for the Sabbath.

She looked up to see him watching her, and the spell was broken. "Wine?" he asked, holding up one of the glasses. "I had to look through the drawers to find the corkscrew and couldn't help but notice the Glock with the dish towels. Tell me, does that come standard with condos in the area, or did you have to pay extra?" He gave her a wide grin to let him know he was joking as she accepted the glass.

"The Shabbat candles," she explained to his unasked question as she returned to her position in the kitchen. "Pay attention, you should know about this." He grinned at her lightly scolding tone, which made her smile slightly in response. "The candles symbolize the command in the Torah to observe and remember the Shabbat. It is customary for the woman of the house to light them eighteen minutes before sunset."

"And then?"

"Before the first meal of Shabbat—dinner on Friday night—it is customary to say _Kiddush_ over a glass of wine," she continued. "Then it is the meal and the observance of Shabbat by refraining from thirty-nine forbidden activities, the _melachot_." She smirked slightly. "But I can already tell you that we will not be doing so."

"Oh?" he asked, his eyebrows raised as he wondered what she was referring to. She smiled again as if knowing what he was thinking.

"We are still cooking," she explained after a long pause as she artfully pulled a knife from the block on the counter. She studied it for a moment before saying, "Which is prohibited. Can you hand me the basil?"

"You making a pesto?" he asked a few minutes later, watching her crush the basil with a pestle.

"It is a pistou," she replied as she added olive oil. "It is similar to pesto, but without pine nuts or cheese. Cheese and meat cannot be eaten together."

He chuckled slightly at her words. "This coming from someone who requests Philly cheesesteaks every time we hit the deli on base?"

She did smile at the comment, but said, "I do not always keep kosher, but someone who later stays in this apartment may. I want to keep this kitchen kosher for them." She raised an eyebrow at him. "And that means if you have your pepperoni pizza here, you may not use any of these plates or utensils."

He scoffed. "Have you ever seen me use plates or utensils when I eat pizza?" They continued to work side-by-side as they prepared their dinner, their conversations mostly centered on what could or could not be done on the Sabbath, what was and wasn't kosher, and several other aspects of Judaism that Tony didn't understand. Although he knew that she didn't observe many of these traditions or restrictions, he enjoyed learning about more about Ziva's culture and trying to figure out what her life was like before she suddenly appeared in his three and a half years before.

After their dinner and several more refills of wine—he didn't know when it was that Ziva retrieved another bottle from the wine rack, but figured it had to be some point before he noticed that he was drinking red wine—they were both laughing as they attempted to clean the kitchen, despite his light-hearted protests that it was in violation of the Sabbath and should be put aside until the next evening. "Tonight was a lot of fun," DiNozzo said out of the blue.

"Yes," Ziva agreed, a smile still on her face as she turned to him, finding him standing closer than she realized. They both stood frozen for what seemed like forever, but was probably only a few seconds. Before either could fully register what was happening, both began leaning toward the other.

"I should get you blankets for the futon," Ziva said abruptly, quickly turning away and heading out of the kitchen.

"Ziva…" DiNozzo called out after her before giving an exasperated sigh. _So much for that idea_, he mused.

"I will try not to wake you when I leave for my run," she said, returning from the linen closet with a blanket and pillow, her gaze not meeting his. "Services are at 0900, so we should leave here before 0845."

"The futon, Ziva?" Tony asked weakly. She thrust the blanket and pillow into his arms and quickly turned away, but not before he saw the flash of something he couldn't quite identify in her dark eyes. Fear? Anger? Annoyance? Pain? He really didn't know how to describe it. "Do you really think—"

"Goodnight, Tony," she said firmly, already heading up the stairs to the lofted master bedroom. He sighed in defeat and began heading toward the second bedroom, set up for a study.

"_Buonanotte_," he muttered sarcastically, barely resisting the temptation to slam the door behind him. By the time he cooled down, he found himself wondering why he was so annoyed with her. Keeping him at arm's length during an undercover mission was probably the smart thing to do; after all, the last time he had been on a long-term undercover mission, he had fallen in love with a woman and hurt her so badly that she had moved to Africa to provide medical care to orphans or some such thing. He could see why Ziva wouldn't want any part of that.


	15. Chapter 14

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 14**

_A/N: I'm in Papua New Guinea! Unfortunately for you (fortunately for me), my layover in Brisbane wasn't long enough to post, so now that I'm settled into the hotel that is my home for the next day and a half (before I head off into the bush), I'm giving you a chapter. There should be another one tomorrow morning (well, morning in PNG...I have no idea how the time zones will translate)._

_Oh, and for my fellow Northern Hemisphere dwellers...water really does swirl the opposite way down the drain here. It's trippy. :)_

* * *

It was the sound of the piano that woke Tony DiNozzo the next morning. At first, he thought it was the alarm on his cell phone, but it was silent as he grabbed for it, almost rolling off the futon in the unfamiliar surroundings. He groaned, squinting across the room to see the red numbers on the clock by the computer. Six-ten in the morning. Wonderful.

It took another few minutes for the situation to fully register in his mind: he was in the guest bedroom/study of Ziva's temporary apartment, they were undercover and would be headed for the synagogue in a few hours. She was Jewish; he was not. He gave a wry smile at that thought. _Took you three and a half years to figure that one out?_ he mocked to himself.

Ten minutes after 0600 meant that Ziva was back from her morning run. At first, he was wondering why she would put on classical music immediately after returning to the condo, but then he remembered the parlor grand piano by the large picture window, and realized that this was no recording he was listening to.

He quietly made his way out of the room, standing just outside the hallway, clad only in a pair of boxers, his attention focused on the piano and the slight figure perched on the piano bench. It was obvious that she had just returned from her run; her dark hair still hung down her back in a single braid over a sweat-stained running shirt and pair of dark shorts. Her attention was focused on the black and white keys in front of her as she played from memory; she hadn't yet registered his presence, allowing him to appreciate this brief glimpse into his partner's life, her guard completely down. He frowned as he thought about the music, trying to remember enough about that music appreciation course in college to identify it. Junior year, winter quarter, needed an easy fine arts credit during basketball season, one of his teammates said that was the way to go, one of his frat brothers informed him that there were a lot of hot girls in there. He was right, too. _Schumann,_ he finally decided. _A little crazy—bipolar—reflected in his music. _Almost appropriate, considering the emotional roller coaster he had been on for the last few days.

He blinked as the music stopped abruptly in mid-strain, his presence finally registering in his partner's head. The unfinished musical phrase hung heavily in the room, so incomplete it almost made DiNozzo wince. "I am sorry," Ziva David finally said, her dark eyes still a bit wider than usual. "I did not mean to wake you."

He shrugged. "I was going to get up soon anyway," he lied. His alarm was set for 0730. They continued to study each other from across the room. "Listen, Ziva, about last night—"

"I should begin to get ready," she interrupted, getting up from the piano bench. He gave a small sigh, knowing that she was just avoiding talking to him; under no stretch of the imagination did it ever take her two and a half hours to get ready in the morning. As if knowing that he was thinking this, she turned back to face him before ascending the stairs. "We should discuss the mission for the day before we leave. I will make breakfast." She didn't give him a chance to respond before she headed up toward the master suite. He waited until he heard the bathroom door closed before he sighed again and headed for the guest bathroom. _Might as well get going_, he mused. It wasn't as if he was getting any more sleep.

He glanced at his reflection in the mirror as he secured the knot of his tie against his neck. He had opted for his standard black suit, the one that screamed 'federal agent' when matched with its usual black tie; the subtle gold pattern in the Armani tie he had packed softened the image somewhat. He remembered staring at his closet for a long stretch the morning before, agonizing about what would be appropriate to wear at a Jewish synagogue. His mind, illogically enough, kept flashing back to his time in Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Illinois, remembering the Amish and their old-fashioned suits, sans buttons. Then he remembered Rabbi Sault's crisp Oxford shirt and slacks, and realized that, especially in a neighborhood such as Georgetown, going to synagogue in one of his usual power suits would probably be appropriate.

He gently rested his suit jacket on the couch before entering the kitchen, not terribly surprised to find his partner already removing pans to begin breakfast. He didn't know how she did it; he didn't think he took all that long to get ready, but she was always faster, and always looking perfect. This morning was no exception, with her modest straight black skirt that fell to mid-calf and long-sleeved dark purple shirt, her gold Star of David necklace resting over the high neckline of the top. Her hair was pinned back in one his favorite styles, the top loosely held at the nape of her neck, long curls falling down her back. In the years that they worked together, she had shown many ways of putting her hair up or back, but the general style never changed much, just a few inches of difference in the length from time to time. Now, it was again a bit on the long side, making him wonder how long it would be before she got annoyed with it and again had it cut to just below her shoulders again.

"Would you rather have a cheese omelet or pancakes?" He blinked aside any thoughts of how good his partner looked and focused his attention on said partner, registering the slightly annoyed look she always wore when she caught him daydreaming. He gave her a wide joking grin in response.

"I suppose bacon is out of the question?" She rolled her eyes and turned away. That was enough to tell DiNozzo she wasn't in a joking mood that morning. "Pancakes sound good."

"Good," she replied curtly. "Because that is what I already decided you would get."

"Glad I had a say in it," he muttered, more to himself than her. She gave him a quick glare as she began mixing batter. "Look, Ziva, you can continue to be mad at me all morning, but don't you think it would just save some time if you could tell me what I did so I can get the apologizing over with?"

She shot another glare in his direction before sighing in resignation. "I am sorry, Tony," she finally said, catching him off guard. "It is not anything that you have done. I am not accustomed to having another person in my apartment. I had forgotten you were here this morning. You caught me off guard while I was playing the piano." A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips as she poured a small amount of batter onto the pan. "Now I know how you feel when I sneak up on you, yes?"

"Except I didn't do it on purpose," he shot back with a grin. "I'll be more loud and obnoxious next time."

She snorted. "I do not believe that that is possible, Tony." They spent the rest of the time as they ate their breakfast discussing what to expect at the synagogue that morning, a conversation that was liberally sprinkled with movie references involving comedic rabbis on Tony's part and eye rolls on Ziva's.

A few minutes before they were scheduled to leave, DiNozzo retrieved the _kippah_ and lapel camera from his bag before returning to the living room to shrug on his suit jacket. He affixed the small camera before shooting a grin at his partner. "I'm ready," he announced.

"No," she replied.

"No?"

She walked over to him and removed the small recorder pack from his breast pocket and flicked an almost invisible switch. "You did not turn it on," she informed him before leaning right in front of the camera. "Good morning, McGee," she said in a faux-serious tone, making DiNozzo laugh. She took the skull cap from his hands and produced a few bobby pins from thin air. "I told you I would help you with this," she reminded him.

"Do we have to do that now?" he asked, aware that he was whining. "Can't we wait until we get there?"

"You are not supposed to carry anything on Shabbat," she informed him. "Which is also why you will pretend that you do not have the keys to the condo in your pocket. Now hold still." He leaned his head forward slightly to give her a better angle, only flinching a few times as she 'accidently' snagged his hair with the pins that she used to keep the yarmulke in place. "There," she finally said, her voice soft against his ear. "That should stay."

"Thanks," he managed in return, all too aware that her body was pressed against him as she had been working. Their eyes met and they both stilled for a moment. Unlike the night before, this time she surprised him by lightly pressing her lips to his cheek.

"Are you ready, Dr. Dinallo?" she asked in a teasing tone.

"I'm ready when you are, Major Kenig," he replied in turn. He was surprised again when he offered his hand and she took it without question.

* * *

"I would be careful about the coffee if I were you, Tony," Ziva whispered into his ear as they approached the pot in the back of the social hall of the synagogue. He gave her a quizzical look as he took a cup.

"I was woken up an hour and a half early by the sounds of the music of a suicidal madman and just spent the last hour and half trying to stay awake during a service conducted entirely in a language I don't understand," he grumbled. "I think that deserves a cup of coffee." He filled his cup and turned to her with eyebrows raised challengingly.

"Only the prayers and readings from the Torah were in a language you did not understand," she shot back quietly, rolling her eyes. "If you had been paying attention, you would have realized the sermon was in English." She waited for him to take a sip of the coffee and smirked at his look of disgust. "I was going to tell you to avoid the coffee because it was likely made yesterday afternoon and kept warm until now. It is not fresh."

"Thanks," he managed sarcastically. He smiled slightly at her grin and lightly brushed a lock of hair off her shoulder. "So," he said after a long moment of silence. "Are the sermons always in English?"

She rolled her eyes and gave him one of those 'I can't believe you're so stupid' looks. "In the United States," she said. "In Israel, they are in Hebrew. They are in the local language, so the congregation can understand what it being said. There would not be a point in giving a sermon that nobody understood."

"Right," he said, nodding his head. His eyes followed her hand as she reached up to his arm, brushing off something that wasn't there. He opened his mouth to ask another question but didn't get the opportunity.

"You must be Major Kenig," a voice said from behind Ziva. Her eyes widened slightly as she pivoted on her heels to find herself face-to-face with a plain-looking middle-aged woman, a warm smile on her round face. "Michael Bashan told us you would be coming to this service today."

"Yes," Ziva said slowly. "Ziva Kenig. And you are?"

"Oh!" the woman replied, chuckling slightly. "Silly me! Hedia Grossman. Rabbi Grossman's wife."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, _Rebbetzin_," Ziva said with a deferential nod. She glanced over at Tony and said, "And this is Anthony Dinallo—"

"The boyfriend," Tony interrupted with a slight laugh and wide grin. Ziva had to fight to resist the urge to roll her eyes; that was the same 'love me, I'm charming' grin she had seen him give thousands of woman of all ages. "And I'd know that accent anywhere. Are you originally from Israel?"

"Why, yes," Mrs. Grossman replied with a grin of her own. This time, Ziva did roll her eyes; the older ones always seemed to eat it right up. He must be a natural at meeting the mothers. "Haifa, originally. Have you been?"

"Not to Haifa, unfortunately, but Ziva tells me it's beautiful." He turned to give his partner a large grin as he gave her hand a quick squeeze. "I was stationed in Jerusalem a few years ago. I spent most of my there or Tel Aviv."

"Stationed?" Mrs. Grossman asked. "Are you in the military?"

"Not quite," he said with a chuckle. "I'm an intelligence analyst for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service." He gave Ziva another smile. "That's how Ziva and I met, actually. It was a liaison mission between Israeli intelligence and NCIS—"

"Tony, I do not think _Rebbetzin_ Grossman needs to hear all the details," Ziva interrupted before smiling sweetly at the rabbi's wife. "Sometimes he forgets that not everybody is as interested in his work as he is."

The three shared a polite chuckle. "I'm so glad you're able to join us, Ziva," Mrs. Grossman said before eying each of the couple in turn. "Perhaps you two would be interested in our couple's group on Wednesday evenings?"

Tony and Ziva looked at each other with exaggerated discomfort. "Well, actually, Mrs. Grossman—"

"Tony is not Jewish," Ziva finished for him, her words rushing out as if it were something she was afraid to vocalize in front of a rabbi's wife.

"Oh," Hedia Grossman replied. DiNozzo was almost sure it was his imagination, but he thought he saw a very brief disapproving expression before her previous smile returned. "Well, we actually have an adult education class that is geared toward couples in the process of learning more about Jewish traditions and faith. We have a few other mixed couples who are working together to be more observant in their practices." She appeared to be gauging their reactions for a moment before continuing. "We meet on Thursday evenings from six-thirty to eight-thirty. My husband and I lead the class, and I always make dinner for the group. Plus, Ziva, it will give you an opportunity to meet some other people your age outside of work."

"I do not know…" Ziva began, feigning reluctance.

"Mrs. Grossman brings up some excellent points, Ziva," Tony interjected. "It would be nice to socialize with people outside of work, and it is about time I put more effort into learning about your culture."

She smiled thinly at him. "You lived in Israel for a year, Tony, and did not manage to assimilate anything," she rebuked lightly.

"Well, now I have a reason to," he said softly, giving her an encouraging smile. He wondered if she was really blushing, or if Mossad officers could make their faces redder on command.

"Great!" the rabbi's wife exclaimed, her smile wide and bubbly. "Oh! And here's one of the couples in the class now! Come, I'll introduce you. Oh, you'll really enjoy the group, you really will."


	16. Chapter 15

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 15**

_A/N: Connecting to the internet is such a pain! Anyway, I don't fly off to parts unseen until tomorrow morning, and considering how early I got up today (gotta love massive time zone changes...) I should be able to get another chapter up tomorrow morning as well. Just don't expect much for awhile after that--if it's this difficult to get connected to the internet while in the country's capital city, imagine how difficult it would be in a place that doesn't even have roads. In the meantime, enjoy this chapter, and hopefully the next._

* * *

Officer Ziva David couldn't kick her shoes off soon enough as they passed through the threshold of her temporary apartment. "Now I remember why it has been so long since I have worn those," she muttered darkly.

"Well, at least you didn't have to wear a—ouch!"

David quickly spun to face her partner in surprise, then had to fight to keep from snickering. "Tony, you still have pins in your hair," she reminded him as he gently rubbed his head, trying to relieve the sting of pulling too quickly at the yarmulke he still wore.

"I didn't think those little things would hold so well," he admitted as he ducked his head down to allow her to help. "I'll never underestimate women's hair accessories again."

"They are actually quite easy to operate," she said with a smile as she handed him the _kippah_. "Which is probably why four-year-old girls do not have many problems with them."

"Hmm," he grunted in response. "So are services always that long?"

"An hour and a half?"

"We were there for almost three hours!"

"Socializing," she corrected. "Which is a perfectly natural thing to do on the Sabbath. I am sure _Rebbetzin_ Grossman could have found more people to introduce us to if you had not been looking at me like you could not wait for a repeat performance—." She cut herself off abruptly as she leaned forward and removed the recording pack from Tony's breast pocket. She gave a low Hebrew curse as she searched the box. "Disregard that, McGee," she snapped before sliding the button to the 'off' position. "There is no rewind," she explained to DiNozzo's amused expression.

"Actually, I was trying to think of what repeat performance you could be talking about," he commented with a dry smile. "Dinner last night was delicious, and I am pretty hungry, but after that comment I doubt McGee would be thinking—." He stopped talking when Ziva placed her hand over his mouth.

"Do you really want to have this discussion right now?" she finally said after what seemed like a long silent staring match.

"Is there a discussion to be had?" he asked in response, suddenly serious. She appeared somewhat taken aback by the question, but the ringing of the doorbell prevented her from having to answer.

"Ziva!" Abby Sciuto exclaimed as she all but burst into the condo. "Oh my God, this apartment is amazing! I've—wait. Can I say 'God' on the Sabbath? Well, it's your Sabbath, not mine, so I don't think God would really care—"

"Abby," Ziva interrupted with a smile. "You can say whatever you want. I will not be offended. I doubt God would, either." She moved aside to allow Abby and McGee into the condo. "Please, make yourself at home. Lunch will be ready soon, and Tony is in the kitchen…" She trailed off and looked around with a confused expression on her face as they stepped into the kitchen. "Well, Tony _was_ in the kitchen. I do not know where he went."

"To change," he replied as they stepped into the living room to see him emerging from the short hallway, now clad in jeans and an Ohio State sweatshirt. Ziva blinked in surprise; that must have been the fastest she had ever seen him change. "What's this about lunch? We just got back!"

"Chicken soup," she informed him. "I put it in the crackpot last night. I also have bread from the bakery…what?" she asked at the laughter of the other three.

"Crockpot," Tony finally managed before he burst out into laughter again. "_Completely_ different from a crackpot."

"I like yours better, Ziva," Abby offered. "I never understood why it's called a Crockpot."

"Thank you, Abby," she replied, giving DiNozzo a short glare. She handed the small recorder box from Tony's lapel camera to McGee. "There is a little more than three hours of recordings on here, from right before we left the apartment until we returned. You can disregard the last few minutes."

"Now he's not going to, Ziva," DiNozzo said, rolling his eyes slightly. McGee glanced down the box curiously, wondering what the two had done or said that had them so up in arms and so concerned with him finding out.

"I will go get lunch ready," David declared, ignoring Tony's comment as she turned on her heel and headed for the kitchen.

"Wow, Tony," McGee said quietly once he was sure she was out of earshot. "What did you do to piss her off this time?"

"Mind your own business, Probie," Tony muttered darkly. Truthfully, he wasn't upset at her, and he doubted she was angry at him. As he was reading it, they were both frustrated with the situation and taking it out on each other. Maybe it was time for that 'discussion'.

"So," McGee continued, almost as if gleefully enjoying the animosity between his partners, "how's living with Ziva?"

"The Israeli embassy really knows to pick a comfortable futon," DiNozzo said sarcastically as he picked up the remote to the television. "It's a shame there aren't any good sports in the spring," he muttered to himself as he flipped through the sports channels. He finally settled on ZNN, hoping that they would say something about somewhere in the Middle East, so he could pretend to be up-to-date on the topic.

"Right," McGee said slowly. "Oww! Abby! What was that for?"

"Stop teasing Tony," she scolded. "He's working very hard and is going to have to be giving up his Saturdays for who knows how long. You can at least be a little sympathetic."

"I'm giving up my Saturday, too!" McGee protested. "Fine," he muttered to Abby's glare.

"Be good," she scolded. Neither had noticed the slight smirk on DiNozzo's face as he pretended not to listen to the exchange.

They were saved from any further conversation when Ziva returned from the kitchen to announce that lunch was ready. Abby seemed unusually excited with the idea of having lunch in Ziva's temporary apartment on Shabbat, which meant the first part of the meal was mostly spent with Tony and McGee silently listening to Ziva's patient explanations to Abby's questions about kosher food and cooking on the Sabbath and whether or not there were special prayers that they should be saying. "Geez, Abby," DiNozzo chuckled after yet another question about what constitutes 'meat' and what is 'dairy', "it sounds like you've done more research on this than I have."

"We _really_ need a case," McGee commented dryly. His eyes widened slightly as he registered those words. "Is it wrong to wish somebody dead just because I'm bored?"

"I'm sure they'll be divine retribution for that," DiNozzo replied. He gave the forensic scientist a slight grin. "Especially for doing so on the Sabbath."

"But it's not his Sabbath," Abby pointed out, "so he should be okay."

After putting away the dishes, the four moved to the living room to get back to work. "Okay, guys," McGee began. "Tell us everything. Did you find anything in the synagogue this morning?"

"Well, there was the guy who came up to us and admitted to shooting Lt. Shaw in the head, Probie, but other than that, it was a pretty slow Saturday," DiNozzo said dryly. "Do you think we would have calmly sat down for a lovely Shabbat lunch if we had anything?"

"Sorry," McGee said weakly. Somehow, he had forgotten how scathing DiNozzo could be when he was frustrated. "Did you get a chance to make your way around the congregation and meet people?"

"Yes," Ziva jumped in before Tony could give another sarcastic comment. "We ran into the rabbi's wife and spoke briefly with her. She recruited us for this couples' adult education course that Lts. Shaw and Sault were involved in, and introduced us to one of the couples in the class, a pair of dentists, Drs. Samuel Cohen and Ashley Detert."

"Anyone suspicious?"

"We pretty much ruled them out on account for the fact that they were the rabbi's wife and a pair of dentists," DiNozzo said, rolling his eyes.

"They should be recorded on the camera, Tim," Ziva said, acting nicer to make up for her partner's derision. "You can run them through the facial recognition programs at NCIS."

"Yeah, good idea, Ziva," McGee agreed. "Uh, do you mind if I check the recording now, just to make sure everything's okay?"

"There is a computer in the sparse bedroom," she said, pointing down the hall. Tony gave his first real smile of the afternoon.

"Spare bedroom," he corrected. He saw the slight smirk on his partner's face and chuckled. "You did that one on purpose," he accused.

"Correcting my English usually makes you laugh," she said defensively. "You are unusually angry at the moment."

"Uh, I'll—we'll—just go check this out now. Abby," McGee said, practically tugging on the goth's arm. "Come on."

She gave an exasperated sigh as she got up; it was obvious that Tony and Ziva were only focused on each other, and had likely forgotten that she and McGee were even in the room. Such opportunities to observe her coworkers weren't always easy to come by.

Tony stared at his partner for a moment before shaking his head slightly. "I'm not angry," he finally admitted. "I'm frustrated with this case. The only evidence we have is a _possible_ connection to a Georgetown synagogue, which may or may not have anything to do with the murder, and then we spent the entire morning there and learned absolutely nothing. It feels like we're treading water, and I hate swimming."

Ziva smiled thinly at the metaphor. "Our mission today was to establish ourselves at the synagogue," she reminded him, "not necessarily to gather intel. We would have busted our covers had we immediately questioned the congregation about Lt. Shaw's death."

He smiled slightly at the botched idiom, but didn't bother to correct it. "You're right," he conceded. "I'm sorry."

"We will just need to be patient," she said, nodding slightly to acknowledge the apology. "If we do not find anything in the next four weeks, we will come up with a plan B."

"Four weeks," DiNozzo muttered, looking away. It seemed like a long time, but the thought of spending four weeks with an excuse to see Ziva every night—well, he wasn't going to complain about that. If each of those nights in those four weeks were anything like the last two, it might drive him insane, but he still wasn't going to complain.

While DiNozzo and David were talking on the couch, McGee and Abby had headed back into the guest bedroom/study. "Huh," Abby said, noticing that, while the futon was folded up, there was a rumbled blanket and pillow resting near the edge. "I guess he really did sleep on the futon."

McGee glanced over at what Abby was looking at and shrugged. "They're professionals, Abby," he reminded her. She looked at him incredulously.

"Timmy!" she protested. "_You're_ the one who just asked Tony about what it was like to be living with Ziva!"

"I was joking!" he said defensively. "Abby, they're not going to be sleeping together while they're on a mission!"

"Why not?" Abby shot back. "They're both adults."

"That isn't the point—"

"Besides, it would probably do them some good," Abby continued without missing a beat. "Maybe then they'll stop all this bickering."

"Abby, they're not going to—whoa." He almost jumped back from the computer screen as the video started with Ziva leaning unnaturally close to the camera and wishing him a good morning, followed by the laughter of both undercover agents.

"Well, they seemed to have been in a better mood this morning," Abby said thoughtfully. "Do you think they—"

"No!"


	17. Chapter 16

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 16**

_A/N: I feel like I've been unfairly teasing you the last few days with my "don't know if I'll get a chance to post another chapter"s, but, barring some unfortunate event that prevents me from getting out to the hospital in the middle of nowhere where I'll be spending the next six weeks, this is the last one for awhile. After re-reading this chapter, I almost considered not posting, because it's a bit mean to leave things here, but then I decided that I am a bit mean for dropping you off anywhere, so I'm going for it. Enjoy. Try not to kill me when I get back._

* * *

"What've you got for me, Probie?" Agent McGee's head snapped up quickly at the unexpected voice, half-expecting to find that he imagined the sound of the senior field agent's voice in the office at 0800 on a Sunday morning, but instead found said senior field agent studying him with a curious expression on his face as he stored his Sig.

"Uh, not much," McGee finally said, recovering from the surprise. "I haven't made it through the entire recording yet. What are you doing here?"

"I don't know if you remember, McAbsent-Minded, but I work here," Agent DiNozzo said sarcastically.

"Well, I know, but it's the weekend…" His voice trailed off as he registered the annoyed expression on DiNozzo's face.

"I _know_ it's the weekend, Probie Wan Kenobi," DiNozzo shot back, "but what else am I going to be doing? There's a finite number of things I'm allowed to be doing while on this mission. Coming into work just happens to be one of them." He looked up to see McGee giving him a curious look. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," McGee replied quickly, his gaze returning to the computer screen. "I'm just impressed you know what 'finite' means."

"I make the jokes around here, McGiggle. You remember that."

"Well, maybe if you'd use something the slightest bit original…Ziva, what are you doing here?"

DiNozzo turned quickly to see his partner at her desk, giving McGee a confused look as she removed her Sig. She also took off her ankle holster and removed her knife from her waistband, which she usually didn't do; if he didn't know better, he could have sworn she was teasing McGee. "I work here, McGee," she said after she had removed the last of her weapons. "Did you get anything from the camera?"

"Uh, no," he finally said, his eyes back on his monitor. He almost jumped when he looked up again to find both of his partners leaning over his desk expectantly. "I, uh, am going to need someone to translate the Hebrew."

"It is only prayers, McGee," David replied. "I would have noticed if anybody had begun an oration of the evils of dating outside one's religion." She looked over at her partner and rolled her eyes. "Tony, on the other hand, was not paying attention to anything. He did not even notice that the sermon was in English."

"I think my brain was fried from all the Hebrew," he muttered. "Either that, or the pain of those pins sticking in my head was too distracting. Seriously, Ziva, did you have to—"

"You are acting like an infant," she interrupted, rolling her eyes. "You better get used to it. You will have to wear the _kippah_ at the synagogue until the mission is complete."

"If you're trying to give me incentive to do my job, _Major_, don't worry," he said sarcastically. "The knowledge that I won't have to be dating _you_ anymore once this is over is incentive enough."

"Maybe Abby was right," McGee muttered to himself. He only realized that he had spoken aloud when both agents stopped their argument to turn their glares on him. Simultaneously, they barked out:

"Right about _what_, McGee?"

* * *

"Ziva—"

"I am going to be a part-time field agent for an indefinite period of time, Tony. I have reports to do and would appreciate it if you would let me finish them." When he didn't say anything in response, she looked up and sighed. "What is it, Tony?"

"Nothing," he said innocently, going back to his own report. Her eyes narrowed as she continued to study him. "What?"

"That is what I asked you."

"Well, I _was_ going to ask if you wanted to grab dinner and a movie, but if you have to do those reports…" He let his voice trail off, ending with a shrug and a grin.

"Ah," David replied, a smile of her own on her face. "Another date means that Director Vance does not know about the $370 bottle of Cristal yet."

"Three hundred and seventy dollars?" McGee echoed as he returned to the bullpen. "You guys bought a $370 bottle of champagne? The last time I was on a mission, I had to buy my own coffee!"

"It's one of the perks of being the senior field agent, Probie. It's all about choosing the right missions," DiNozzo smirked.

"We were after a rogue agent!"

The grin dropped from DiNozzo's face at the reminder. "Do you have anything, McGee?" he snapped.

"Uh, yes. And no," McGee replied, returning to business at the stern note in the senior field agent's voice. "We ran the faces from the video through the facial recognition software. There are a few military personnel in the congregation, a couple of representatives, a senator, and a, uh, banker who's about to be indicted for fraud. There are a few past misdemeanor charges, but nothing that seems related to these deaths. Everything looks kosher. Uh, no pun intended. Sorry, Ziva."

She shrugged. "You did not offend me, McGee."

"There was also this really interesting conversation at the end of the recording…"

"You know what, Tony?" Ziva interrupted, turning to her partner. "I think dinner sounds like a great idea."

* * *

"Is this where we have that discussion?" DiNozzo asked, studying his partner over the rim of his coffee cup as he brought it to his mouth for a sip. The movie hadn't been bad, as Sunday afternoon matinees went, but it seemed to further emphasize his point about movies in the last decade or so being more about special effects than plot. Ziva seemed to enjoy the ass-kicking, even though she was scoffing at how unrealistic it was about half of the time.

She placed the spoon she was fidgeting with down on the table before she raised her eyes to meet his. "Gibbs has rules for a reason," she finally said.

"So that's why you always wear a knife."

"Tony…"

"Sorry." He looked away before looking back. "So that's what this is about? Gibbs' rule about dating coworkers? What is it, thirteen?"

"I believe twelve."

"Still, it doesn't even make the top ten. 'Don't put suspects together' rates higher than that."

She rolled her eyes, wondering why she thought it would be possible to have a serious conversation with her partner. "Forget it," she finally muttered.

He sighed. "Sorry," he repeated. He stared into his coffee cup for a long minute, swirling it gently and watching the subtle colors circle around as he tried to figure out what to say. That he was attracted to her? He was pretty sure she knew that already. Hell, he was pretty sure she was aware that ninety percent of the men she encountered in a day were attracted to her. That he cared for her beyond that sexual attraction? Once again, he was sure she knew that already; they were partners and caring for each other and protecting each other were in the job description. "Gibbs told me once that I can't live under his rules forever, that someday I'm going to have to make some of my own."

She took that response in stride, but then surprised him with her next question. "Did Gibbs ever tell you what happened between him and Jen in Paris?"

"Well, I assumed they…I mean, it was pretty obvious they…" He gave up. "I take it you know more than I do about the subject."

"They were…involved, while on an undercover mission together throughout Europe," she confirmed with a nod. "When their mission was over, he briefly returned to DC and she requested a transfer to the Middle East. She never said anything specific about the decision, but I always had the impression that it was not the one she wanted to be making."

He tried not to think about the parallels between the situations—undercover missions, a relationship between two headstrong and determined people, the possibility of being split up. He had done 'split up' from Ziva already, and would rather not repeat the experience. "How did it end?" he asked against his better judgment. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Ziva gave a half-shrug, again not meeting his eye. "When the mission was over, Jen found Gibbs to be…distant, unwilling to make a commitment, uncertain of what he wanted in his personal life. She could not put her career on hold for a relationship that he would not allow to be."

He didn't need a female-to-male dictionary to understand what she was saying. People were always making comments about how like Gibbs he was becoming, and while he didn't have the emotional baggage of a murdered wife and daughter, he _did_ have the reputation of jumping from one 'relationship' to another. He hadn't been deaf to Ziva's comments over the last year, especially since they both returned to DC from their respective assignments. He could tell that having a real relationship, one with the possibility of marriage and kids, while not in the forefront of her mind, was somewhere in there. To be honest, this was the opposite of how he thought this conversation would be going; he thought she would bring up his relationship to Jeanne and how involved he had gotten, how it had impaired his judgment and almost cost him his life. Of course, he might have been thinking that that is what she would say because that was what he had been thinking about since this mission began. "I'm not Gibbs," he finally said. "And you're not Jenny. Just because it happened to them in Europe ten years ago doesn't mean that the same thing will happen to us."

He could tell by the look in her eyes that she was unconvinced, and he knew that there was nothing he could say that would change her mind. Even if it weren't for the dossier she had prepared on him before she joined the team, he hadn't exactly been an example of boyfriend material in the years that they had worked together. "I know," she agreed. "I just think that for now, things would go more smoothly if we did not get distracted by anything other than the mission."

He searched her gaze for any hint that she didn't mean what she had just said, but he was met with the steely, determined look he had seen thousands of times, when she had made up her mind and there was no changing it. He sighed inwardly before nodding. "Okay. If that's what you want, then that's what we'll do." He gave a wide grin that he knew didn't reach his eyes. "Now let's get you home, Major Kenig. You have a big day tomorrow."


	18. Chapter 17

_A/N: I'm back! Well, not really-I'm at a missionary guesthouse in Port Moresby, the capital of Papua New Guinea, but I'm back to the land of electricity for 24 hours a day and INTERNET. I've missed internet so much...almost as much as I miss a good night's sleep and having clean clothes. But anyway..._

_I'm going to be traveling quite a bit over the next day or so to get back to the States, so there will be some irregular posting before the chapters start coming at regular intervals again. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you continue to enjoy. The good news is, I had plenty of time to write, as there isn't much to do in the bush of PNG (other than heal the sick, of course, but that can only be done for some many hours a day), so I have a lot saved up to post._

_And onto the story._

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 17**

* * *

Officer Ziva David smiled to herself as she leaned against the side of the building, her weapon held tightly to her chest. _Oh, this is going to be fun_, she thought, willing her heart rate down so she could better to listen to the subtle sounds around her. A second later, she heard the tale-tell sound of a footprint, about a meter and a half to her left… Taking a quiet breath, she quickly spun from her position and fired three times, right into the chest.

"You're dead," she smirked at Sergeant Jackson, who was looking crestfallen at the three green splotches of paint right over his heart. The three instructors—Navy Commander Sunil Patel, Army Major Brad Austin, and IDF Major Ziva Kenig—had finished their work earlier than anticipated that Thursday morning, so they invited their non-commissioned officers to join them for a 'training exercise' during their free afternoon. _Training exercise, my ass_, Ziva thought to herself. _The boys just wanted to play paintball_. Not that she minded; it had been so long since she had spent time in a military setting, and she had forgotten how much fun running around shooting at people could be. Not that she didn't get enough about it at NCIS, but it had a different feel to it when wearing a uniform, even if that uniform was an old set of camouflage fatigues that they had lying around the National Defense Intelligence College for this exact purpose.

"Looks like the officers win again," Major Austin said, emerging from his position behind a short wall, his paintball gun up in the air. "Although it's not so much 'the officers' as 'our Israeli officer'."

She gave Austin a thin smile at the compliment as they began heading in for the afternoon, not wanting to encourage him by commenting about how different her training had been than theirs, or, even worse, returning his compliment with a hollow one of her own. When she first showed up at the NDIC on Monday morning for her in-processing, the first thing the blond Army intelligence officer had done was glance down at her left hand. Seeing her fourth finger empty, he began what could only be described as an all-out attack of flirting, which she endured without comment for about a day, before she let 'slip' that she had a boyfriend at NCIS. Still, he seemed to be of the mindset that until there was a ring, she was fair game. At this point, he was a mild annoyance, but if this went on much longer, she'd have to get more creative. While holding a gun to his forehead and telling him to stop might lack a certain amount of imagination, she figured it would be effective.

"Major Kenig," one of the young petty officers called out as they entered the administrative area. "A Dr. Dinallo called for you earlier this afternoon. He wanted to remind you that he will meet you at NCIS before leaving for the day."

"Thank you, Petty Officer Mateo," Ziva replied as she headed toward her desk.

"The boyfriend?" Austin asked with a grin.

"Yes," she replied, not meeting his gaze as she checked her email one last time for the day. She had practically made a point of going to NCIS at the end of every day, but she still felt like explaining what was different about that particular day. "We are meeting with the rabbi at the synagogue at 1800. He seems to think that I will forget if he does not remind me several times."

"Ah," Major Austin replied, as if understanding. "So he's Jewish."

"No," Ziva replied, fighting to keep the grin she felt from showing itself on her face. She could almost see the wheels turning in Austin's head. _So obviously she doesn't have a problem dating outside her religion…_ She decided to leave him to his ponderings as she rose from her desk, her bag of clean clothes in hand. "If you will excuse me, Major, I do not believe either Tony or the rabbi will be pleased if I show up in soiled fatigues."

"Oh, right," he said, stepping out the entry to her cubical. "So, I guess I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Oh-seven-thirty," she replied with a smile. "Have a good night."

* * *

"Major," Agent Gibbs said with a nod as the elevator doors opened to reveal his Mossad liaison. He had taken to calling her that whenever she arrived at the office after a day of being Major Ziva Kenig. She wasn't sure if he was making fun of her or trying to keep her comfortable with her undercover identity, but she was done trying to figure it out. She tried asking him to stop, but her protests fell on deaf ears. The only thing she could do was go with it.

"Gibbs," she replied with a nod. Judging by his position by the elevator doors and the fact that he lacked his usual cup of coffee, she was guessing he was on his way to get a refill, which was a good indication that his day wasn't going so well.

"What time are you taking my senior field agent?" Yeah, that confirmed it; he was annoyed with her taking DiNozzo off to the synagogue to meet with Rabbi Grossman because he had work for DiNozzo to be doing. Come to think of it, he was probably even more annoyed with her for not having been there whenever the case that was occupying his thoughts arrived.

"The meeting with Rabbi Grossman is at 1800," she replied. "The class concludes at 2030, if you need us to return."

He shook his head. "No," he declared. "Use the time socializing with the other couples. Find a way to talk to them about Shaw and Sault. Do whatever it is that you people do."

"'You people'?" she echoed, her eyebrows raised.

"Yeah, you people," he repeated. "People who socialize." He ignored her eye roll as he stepped into the elevator.

Of the two remaining agents in the bullpen, McGee noticed David's presence first. "Hey, Ziva," he greeted. His eyes widened slightly as he took in her appearance. "Uh, is your head bleeding?"

She frowned as she touched her hair gently, coming away with pink paint on her fingers. "I know for a fact that my blood is not florescent pink, McGee," she said with a smile. "It is paint. We went on a 'training exercise' this afternoon. Paintgunning."

"I think you mean paint_balling_," he corrected. She tried not to think about how disappointed she was that it wasn't Tony who corrected her intentional error. DiNozzo scoffed.

"That's a training exercise?" he mocked. "Do you think Gibbs would go for that?"

"I do not know, Tony. How about if you suggest it and see how that works out?" Ziva replied sarcastically. He grinned at the idea as he leaned back in his chair.

"So you're here to rescue me from tracking a missing petty officer?"

Ziva frowned; she didn't know what their current case was, but it wasn't often the Major Case Response Team was called for AWOL sailors. She decided not to ask. "You were the one who called NDIC to remind me of our meeting with Rabbi Grossman."

"Yeah, I know," he said with a grin as he rose from his chair. "Have fun, McGee."

"Thanks, guys," the junior agent called out sarcastically. Both DiNozzo and Ziva laughed as they waved their goodbyes.

* * *

"Ziva Kenig and Anthony Dinallo?" Both Tony and Ziva looked up sharply at the questioning voice. Rabbi Aron Grossman was again redefining Tony's preconceptions of what a Jewish rabbi looked like. He lacked the rotund appearance and curled sideburns of Mel Brooks' Rabbi Tuckman, as well as the tall, athletic, polished look of Rabbi Sault. In all, the middle-aged rabbi was fairly unremarkable—average height, average features, nondescript sandy blond hair that looked like it was ready for a haircut.

"Tony," DiNozzo replied, standing to greet the rabbi.

"Tony," Grossman repeated with a nod. "Please, come into my office. I'm sorry I wasn't available right away."

Ziva followed her partner into the small, cluttered office, their hands brushing together as they walked. He looked over at her and gave her a small smile before grasping that hand and giving it a brief squeeze. She felt a newly familiar rush of guilt at that simple gesture. Since their 'discussion' on Sunday, he had been the perfect undercover boyfriend while they were out, with those small gestures, almost chaste kisses on the cheek, and meaningful glances he had always been good at. At the office or away from watching eyes, though, he was strictly professional, not even joking with her as he usually did. She could see it in his eyes when he didn't know she was looking—she had hurt him. It surprised her, that flash of vulnerability. She hadn't expected him to be the one who was hurt.

She had seen it coming since they met—there was always that attraction, that sexual tension. Then, she had thought that that would be it, a few nights of good sex and they would go their separate ways. She couldn't pinpoint a moment when that had changed, when she had realized that that wasn't all she wanted from him. After those intensely sexually charged first few months, they fell into a more comfortable rhythm: still competing, but learning how to work together as colleagues and friends. The innuendo was more innocent, the friendship stronger. Then there was Jeanne. She saw with her own eyes the man he could become, and she began to wonder what a real relationship with Tony would be like, but she found herself unwilling or unable to make the next step forward. She continued to question him, mostly in hypotheticals, but he never gave any indication that he thought a relationship with her would be any more than just great sex. She had always assumed that she would eventually give into that, Gibbs' rules be damned, and then he would move on and she would again be alone. But now, with that look in his eyes after hearing her say that she wanted them to keep their distance, well, she found herself wondering once again if she had misjudged him.

The rabbi's voice forced her back into the present. "First of all, I just wanted to say, welcome to the United States, Major Kenig."

"Ziva," she allowed. "And, thank you. It is not my first time to America, but this will be my longest stay to date."

Rabbi Grossman nodded slightly, his eyes going from one NCIS agent to the other. "My wife tells me that the two of you have been dating for some time."

"Yeah," DiNozzo said, glancing over at Ziva before continuing. "We met while I was stationed in Israel, and she just couldn't resist my charms." He gave her a wide grin and a wink, which she good-naturedly rolled her eyes to.

"Against my better judgment," she joked in return. "We dated for six months while Tony was in Israel. When he went back to DC, we tried to make a clean break, but after a few months apart, we found that a break was not what we wanted, but relationships when one is in Israel and one is in DC are not easy."

"This is a bit of a trial run for us," DiNozzo picked up. "Four months of living in the same city again before we decide what the next step should be."

"And what do you think the next step should be?" Rabbi Grossman asked them both. They looked at each other, somewhat uncomfortably.

"We've talked about that some," DiNozzo finally said. "I could request another assignment in Israel or the Middle East, or Ziva could leave the IDF and get a job here, maybe at the Israeli embassy. If we do either of those, our relationship would have to be more...permanent."

"You're considering marriage?" Again, they both chuckled uncomfortably.

"I guess you can say we're considering considering," DiNozzo joked. "Which is kinda why we're here. Religion wasn't a big thing for me growing up, but it's important to Ziva and her family. I guess, I want to learn what it's about."

"Well, I hope we'll be able to help you with that," Rabbi Grossman replied. "The class isn't primarily about conversion to Judaism, although that would be required if you were to have a Jewish wedding. It's more about growing together in Jewish faith and practices." Now it was his turn to chuckle. "I don't know if that makes sense to you. Maybe it will be more clear after tonight's class."

Both DiNozzo and David nodded slightly. "Well, like I told your wife, Rabbi, I didn't assimilate much Jewish culture while I was living in Israel, but now I feel like I have a reason to." He gave Ziva another smile and squeezed her hand. "I want to do whatever I can to make this relationship work."


	19. Chapter 18

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 19**

_A/N: Still in PNG-the taxi is coming in half an hour to take me to the airport, and then it will be two stops in Australia (Brisbane and Sydney), then Honolulu (American soil!) and then touching down in LA round 9pm local time-"12 hours" after I leave, which is actually a total of 30 hours of traveling!_

_Thank you so much for the reviews, both while I was gone and to the last chapter. I'm glad that you're continuing to follow the story, even after my absence. _

_Okay, onto the story._

* * *

There had been three other couples in the class, in addition to the Grossmans and the two undercover NCIS agents. As Mrs. Grossman had promised, they started with dinner and about an hour of socializing, which seemed to have been mostly centered on getting to know the new couple within their midst. Prompted by all of the questions about who they were and what they did, Ziva mentioned something about having a group over to her temporary apartment at some point. Mrs. Grossman seemed to latch onto this and suggested the Sunday after next. Neither Tony nor Ziva expected it to happen so quickly, but they certainly weren't going to try to push back their mission any more than necessary.

Around seven-thirty, Rabbi Grossman began their lesson, most of which DiNozzo didn't follow, his mind focused more on the mission in front of them and what else he could be doing to find the killer. He wasn't used to all this waiting around, feeling like he was getting nothing accomplished. It had been almost two weeks since Lt. Shaw had been killed, and it felt like they were no closer to figuring out who did it than they were the day they investigated the car crash. After all his years in law enforcement, he knew the statistics, and two weeks after the fact was a long period of time to be expecting to catch a killer.

After some more socializing, it was close to nine-thirty before Tony and Ziva left the synagogue hand-in-hand. "Well, they seemed nice enough," DiNozzo quipped after he dropped her hand, about a block away from the synagogue. "Hard to believe that one could be a killer."

"Yes," David replied absently, acutely aware of the absence of his hand in hers. She pushed that thought aside and forced herself to think like an investigator. "We had met Drs. Cohen and Detert on Saturday. They were clear on McGee's search, yes?"

"A clean record just means that you haven't been caught yet," DiNozzo pointed out before he sighed. "But you're right. They're dentists. Not my favorite type of people, but I doubt either would list 'serial killing' as a hobby."

"Then there is the Burbanks."

"Yeah, I don't think so," DiNozzo replied. "To be honest, I'm surprised expensive Beltway lawyers have time for classes at the synagogue, much less murder."

"Then that leaves Jerry Xi and Dara Levi."

"A government paper-pusher and Congressional staffer?" He appeared to think about that as they rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor. "I guess that's a bit more believable than a pair of dentists, but I still don't see it." He shook his head. "I just don't think any of them had anything to do with this."

"They all seemed to like Lts. Shaw and Sault," Ziva agreed, remembering her innocent question about who the _Kaddish_ was for and the sad explanation that followed. "I do not think any were lying about their remorse. Would you like a beer?"

"Huh? Oh, thanks." He took the brown bottle from her before she continuing talking.

"I do not think it was any of the people in the course," she said. "They would not fit the profile. They obviously do not have anything against dating outside one's religion, as they are all doing so."

"Some of the most homophobic people are in the closet," DiNozzo pointed out. Her eyes narrowed at the metaphor before she understood what he was saying.

"I did not consider that possibility," she admitted. "Maybe a repressed guilt about one's actions is causing him or her to act out against them?"

He couldn't help but grin at her words. "Since when were you into all the psychological profiling stuff, anyway?"

"I must have been spending too much time around Ducky," she commented.

"So, on that theory, everyone is back on the table," he said. "And that gets us nowhere."

"That is true," she said with a sigh. "You will give McGee and Abby the recording from tonight's class?"

"I'll do that in the morning," he acknowledged. There was an almost awkward silence before he said, "Good job working Shaw and Sault into the conversation, by the way."

She shrugged a shoulder and didn't say anything further about that. Instead, she said, "I think we—I—should have the team over for dinner on Sunday."

"You mean, like a dress rehearsal for having our classmates over?"

"Yes," she said. "Except with different food and for a different purpose. Other than that, the two are identical."

He smiled at her sarcasm as he got up to leave. "See you tomorrow afternoon?"

"I will come by NCIS sometime before sunset to pick you for Shabbat," she agreed. He almost grimaced as he remembered the way that night ended the week before. "_Buonanotte_, Tony."

"_Laila tov, _Ziva."

* * *

Tony DiNozzo was bored. The AWOL sailor they were looking for the day before (they were looking for him in regards to a poorly attempted bank robbery, not because he was AWOL) turned himself in at the recruiting station near his parent's house, confused about why NCIS was looking for him after he saw it on the news. He had nothing to do with said bank robbery, but he was late returning to duty, which likely resulted in some demerits from his commanding officer. DiNozzo couldn't care less; all that mattered was that he didn't have to look for him anymore.

Which left him sitting at his desk after a long lunch break with nothing to do. He could always throw things at McGee, but seeing as the probie was still processing the paperwork from the bank-robbery-that-wasn't-a-bank-robbery case, he decided to let it go. His other usual time-occupying task—flirting with Ziva until McGee got uncomfortable—was significantly harder to do with Ziva not in the building. Not as if she'd appreciate the flirting anyway, after that 'discussion' they had on Sunday.

He gave a long, dejected sigh before glancing over at McGee, the only other occupant in the bullpen at that moment. No reaction. He tried it again. "Can I get you something, Tony?" the junior agent finally asked, annoyed.

"Nope," DiNozzo replied. "I'm just bored."

"Can you be bored a little less loudly? Some of us still have work to do."

"It's all about efficiency, Probie. I'm done with my reports."

"That's because you're making me do them!"

"That's called delegating, McGee. Maybe someday you'll be the senior field agent and you'll understand."

"Reports would help alleviate that boredom, Tony."

"I said I was bored, not desperate." They lapsed into silence after that comment, where DiNozzo remained until he snatched up his phone in a sudden fit of inspiration. "Hi, this is Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo at NCIS. Can you transfer me to the homicide division? Yeah, I'll hold," he said into the receiver.

"Homicide division, Tony?" McGee asked, his interest piqued.

"Yeah, this is called doing some invest—this is Agent DiNozzo. Can I speak to a Detective..." His voiced trailed off as he clicked at his computer. "Detective Zuza? Oh, he transferred? In that case, would you be able to get me whoever has the Quinn case? Yeah, home invasion in '07. Cold cases? It was fifteen months ago! Okay, sixteen, but that still seems—yeah, I'll hold."

"Quinn?" McGee asked.

"Dr. Stephanie Quinn, the ER doc with a Jewish boyfriend who was killed sixteen months ago," he replied. "Yeah, I'm still here. He's gone for the day? Really? It's only 1600! I guess I'm in the wrong line of work...yeah, leave him a message, tell him to call Agent DiNozzo at NCIS when he gets in tomorrow. Oh, yeah, I guess you're right, tomorrow is Saturday. In that case, can you have someone fax the case notes...oh, it's that thick? In that case, why don't you have someone bring it by here... Because we're federal agents, that's why we can't go there and pick it up. Okay, okay! Does Detective James work on Sundays? No? How about if I swing by there on Sunday morning... Okay, we're going to have to figure something out here, if you're not going to fax me a copy and you won't let me take the box out of your storage—hello? She hung up on me!"

"Imagine that." He looked up sharply to see his partner standing in front of his desk, an unfamiliar uniform setting off the familiar smirk she was wearing.

"Major Kenig," he said slowly as he returned the receiver to the cradle. "I don't think I've ever actually seen you in uniform before."

She gave him a teasing smile as she leaned forward, patting his cheek gently. "Analyst Dinallo has seen Major Kenig in uniform many times. And out of uniform as well."

He had to blink a few times to keep that mental image from forever burning in his mind. _Not get distracted on the mission, my ass_, he thought bitterly. "Time to go?" he said instead.

"Unless you need to follow up on that telephone call," she replied.

"I got hung up on, Ziva. That's a pretty universal sign for 'there's no use calling back'."

She nodded. "Then we should go. Good night, McGee. We will see you and Abby tomorrow?"

"Yeah, we'll be there."

"Good. If I have time, I will make you something more exciting than soup."


	20. Chapter 19

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 19**

* * *

Saturday morning went much more smoothly this week than the last. There were no arguments, imagined or otherwise, the night before, and both Tony and Ziva went to their separate bedrooms in Ziva's Georgetown condo without either getting angry at the other. Of course, they had both been so concerned with offending the other that they restricted their conversation to the case, and both fell asleep feeling as if something was missing.

This week, Ziva didn't forget about Tony's presence in the condo, sparing them from any awkward encounters around the piano. She wasn't sure if it was latent frustration from the night before or just the need to separate herself from Tony before she did anything she might—or might not—regret later, but she went on an extra long run that morning, not returning until after he was already awake. She heard the shower in the guest bathroom running and glanced at her watch with a grimace; she had been out longer than she thought, and would have to hurry to get ready in time to make breakfast.

To her surprise, when she emerged from the master bedroom ready to go, she found herself hit with the aroma of breakfast and the sounds of somebody on the telephone. Not wanting to disturb her partner, she quietly made her way to the kitchen just as he was finishing his conversation. "Uh-huh. Thanks, buddy. I owe you one. What? Tickets to the Michigan game?" DiNozzo chuckled into the phone. "You're going to have to wait until 2010 for that one, Niebuhr. The Bucks play Michigan at home in the even years. Yeah, yeah, I'll make a note. So I'll come by tomorrow morning... Okay, sounds good. Bye."

"You are giving away your football tickets?" DiNozzo jumped several inches at the sound of his partner's voice, who was giving him an apologetic look. "Sorry. I did not mean to sneak up on you like that."

"It's okay," he replied before giving a shrug. "Unless the Wolverines do something massive to redeem themselves in the next two seasons, it's not that big of a deal. It probably won't be that exciting of a game. They're not that great of a team these days. Waffle?"

She blinked at the non-sequitur before she realized he was handing her a plate with a waffle on it. "Oh. Thank you. You did not have to make breakfast."

"You made it last week," he pointed out with another shrug. They ate in silence for a minute before Ziva spoke again.

"You did not say why you are giving up your football tickets."

"Oh," DiNozzo replied, chewing thoughtfully as he formulated his answer. He decided to be vague. "I have a friend at Metro PD who is looking into something for me. Not that big of a deal."

"Something related to this case?"

"I don't know yet." She seemed to accept this answer, just as she accepted that he would tell her what it was when he was ready.

"Well," she said a few moments later. "Are you ready to go? Where is your _kippah_?" He held up the dark blue embroidered skullcap, an look almost like a wince on his face as she again produced the bobby pins from God-knows-where.

"My goal by the end of this mission is to figure out how to put this on myself," he said as she again pinched at his hair to keep it in place. She was surprised to feel a pang of sadness at his words; she hadn't realized until that moment how much she enjoyed that simple of act of helping him.

"There you go," she said a moment later, stepping back to check that it was reasonably in the right place. "And the camera?"

He pulled it out of the pocket and switched it on. "This is Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, beginning recording of Saturday Number 2 of who-knows-how-many," he said in an overally dramatic voice that made Ziva smile. They turned and made their way out of the condo, and when Tony reached for her hand a few blocks earlier than necessary, she didn't protest.

* * *

Tony DiNozzo didn't think it was possible, but they spent even more time after the service socializing this week than they did the last. All three couples they had met on Thursday evening managed to find them in that social hall and proceeded to make small talk that, if it had lasted any longer, DiNozzo would have been forced to no longer call 'small talk'. Not surprisingly, the Burbanks—those high-priced Beltway lawyers who had recently discovered God or some such thing—backed out of dinner for the following Sunday, stating that they were far too swamped at work to take another evening off. Ziva voiced something akin to regret, but DiNozzo could see the relief in her eyes; that meant two fewer people to cook for, and she would have had to get creative when it came to the seating arrangements—the dining room table only had eight chairs.

They were barely a block away from the synagogue when DiNozzo pulled his cell phone from his pocket to check for missed calls. "Tony!" Ziva hissed, subtly glancing around to see if anybody else had noticed the move. "Wait until we are further from the synagogue to flaunt your non-observance of Shabbat."

"I thought you said talking on the phone was okay?" he asked, confused.

"I lied," she said flatly. "Sometimes it is easier to do that than to tell you the truth."

"Well, that's comforting, I guess," he said dryly. "Any other lies you've told me that I should know about before I make a bigger idiot of myself?"

_Just that I didn't want us to get 'distracted' by anything other than the mission_, she thought bitterly. "No," she stated instead.

By the time they climbed the fifteen flights of stairs to Ziva's apartment—she had explained to him as they did so the week before that elevators, as they required electricity, couldn't be used on the Sabbath—they found McGee and Abby waiting in the hallway. "I am sorry," Ziva apologized as she unlocked the door using the keys she extracted from Tony's pocket seconds before. "We got caught up talking."

"Well, that's the point, isn't it?" McGee asked. "Maybe we should push our post-services meetings back a couple of hours in the future."

"That is not a bad idea," Ziva acknowledged. "Make yourself at home. I am going to change."

"As am I," DiNozzo chimed in. Abby raised her eyebrows at the idea of them changing together, but her face fell when she noticed Ziva heading up the stairs to the master suite and Tony aimed for the guest bedroom/study.

"This is getting ridiculous," she muttered to herself.

"Hmm?" McGee asked, distracted by the pictures Ziva had finally placed on the mantel a few nights before.

"Oh, is that Ziva?" Abby asked, following his line of sight to the picture of a young Ziva David in the drab green of an enlisted IDF soldier. "Wow, she looks so young. Do you think—"

"What did you say just now?" McGee interrupted.

"About Ziva's picture?"

"No, about something being ridiculous."

"Oh. You know, all this sexual tension between Tony and Ziva. I swear, McGee—"

"Abby, we've been over this before. They're both professionals—"

"What're you guys talking about out here?" DiNozzo interrupted, reappearing in jeans and the same sweatshirt he wore the week before. "Oh, Ziva put the pictures up. I didn't even notice last night."

"Were you too busy with something else, Tony?" Abby asked innocently.

"Don't bother," McGee muttered to DiNozzo's confused expression. "It'll take too long to explain."

"Right," DiNozzo said slowly. "You guys want something to drink? I think we have beer, wine, pop, and of course there's water..." His head stuck in the refrigerator, he didn't even notice Abby's smirk at his use of the word 'we'.

"I'll have a beer," McGee said quickly. If Abby was going to keep up with this throughout their afternoon meeting, not to mention dinner the next night, he was going to need it.

DiNozzo studied the bottle in his hand for a minute before calling out, "Hey, Ziva! Is it okay to drink beer on Saturday?"

"You do that often while watching your football, yes?" she replied just over his shoulder, almost making him jump at her sudden proximity. _How does she keep doing that?_ he asked himself, irate at being taken by surprise for the second time that day.

"I just meant...never mind. Here you go, Probie. Abs? You want anything?"

"Since I'm assuming you're not hiding a Caff-Pow machine somewhere in this ginormous kitchen, I'll have a soda. Sprite, if you have it." He didn't register the slight emphasis she put on the work 'you'.

After handing over the green can to the forensic scientist, DiNozzo grabbed a beer for himself and joined McGee and Abby on the barstools at the kitchen counter, watching Ziva prepare their meal as the four of them began their discussion about the case and the progress—or lack thereof—that had been made. Abby had run the video from their first session of the couple's class on Thursday through the facial recognition program, and with the exception of both of the Burbanks being linked with a number of criminal cases—as lawyers, not defendants—everyone was clean. "I swear, guys," she was complaining, "you really need to find yourselves some less reputable people to hang out with. Even their DMV records are clean! I mean, Ziva's an international spy and doesn't even have a clean DMV record."

"Thank you, Abby," Ziva said dryly as she reached for Tony's beer and took a sip. Her back was turned to them before she could register Abby's eyes widening at the move. McGee, accustomed to seeing the Mossad liaison take food and drinks right from DiNozzo's hands, didn't bat an eyelash at the motion, but groaned inwardly at the knowledge that Abby would be bringing it up for the next week.

Lunch—a light pasta with a side of salad—was delicious, as they knew it would be, so when it was time for McGee and Abby to take Tony back to the Navy Yard, where he had left his car the afternoon before, they didn't find the day a complete waste. "I will see you tomorrow, then?" Ziva asked as she handed McGee the recording from the synagogue that morning.

"Nineteen hundred, right?" McGee asked. "I can bring a bottle of wine."

DiNozzo scoffed at the offer. "Don't bother, McEpicurean. Israel has taken care of it. Have you checked out this wine rack? You'd have to be reaching into your Thom E. Gemcity expenses to match that."

"Epicurean, Tony?" McGee asked with a frown, ignoring the rest of DiNozzo's statements. He had no problem spending money like a famous novelist; he had a Porsche and an Armani wardrobe to prove it.

DiNozzo shrugged at the question. "Food Network," he explained. Abby looked at him with sympathy in her eyes.

"Tony, we _really_ need to find you a hobby," she said, wrapping him into a large hug.

"Uh, thanks, Abs," he said. "You can let go now."

"Oh, sorry. But you really do need to cut down on the TV." She turned to Ziva, her bright smile again on her face. "Thanks again for lunch, Ziva. I'm really looking forward to dinner tomorrow." Ziva smiled in response as the three headed out the door.

"Oh, Ziva?" She turned to see DiNozzo standing half in the hallway and half in her entry way. "If you need some help with dinner, feel free to call. I'll come over early."

She smiled again at the offer. "A result of watching the Food Network, Tony?" she teased. "I will see you tomorrow. Have a good night."

As she locked the door behind her friends, she found herself already thinking of excuses to call him.


	21. Chapter 20

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 20**

_A/N: I'm back on the mainland! Yay! Life is good-I have electricity and internet, so I'm happy._

_There was something that I neglected to explain about the last chapter, having forgotten that most of the world does not understand the ways of Ohio State football. Tony giving away tickets to the OSU-Michigan game, despite his nonchalance, is a BIG DEAL. I reiterate-BIG DEAL. These tickets have been known to go for hundreds of dollars. In 2006, when OSU and Michigan were ranked #1 and #2 respectively, someone offered me $800 for one ticket to the OSU-Michigan game, and I didn't have a great seat. So that's just something to think about (as if I didn't give you enough to think about already). _

_And back to the story_

* * *

Ziva David steeled herself, not needing the internal reminder to keep her emotions in check. _You are on a mission_, she reminded herself. _You can not let it show that this is anything out of the ordinary_. "And your total is...two hundred twelve dollars and fourteen cents."

_Damn kosher beef_, Ziva cursed inwardly as she swiped the credit card. Even though it wasn't her money (Ziva Kenig was footing the bill), she had never spent that much on groceries. If it weren't for the fact that shopping in the yippie (_was that the word? Tony would know_) kosher grocery store was something that Major Ziva Kenig would do, she wouldn't have even considered it. After all, six of the seven people who would be eating steak that night would never know the difference.

She smiled thinly at the cashier before picking up her bags and headed out for her car, appreciating once again the sleek lines of the BMW. Although she loved her Mini, it was getting up there in years (she had never had a car last her longer than two years before; she was almost impressed with herself), and it wouldn't be too much of a budget stretch to upgrade...

_You are getting distracted during the mission_, she thought with a wry smile, _but this time, by a car_. She grinned at what Tony would say if he found out how much she liked the embassy car; after all, he was the one always making fun of her Mini.

She was still putting groceries away in her oversized kitchen when the doorbell rang. Muttering a Hebrew curse under her breath at what was likely the shrived old lady from across the hall who was always letting her cat get away from her, she pasted her largest fake smile on her face as she opened the door.

"Tony," she said in surprise at the sight of her partner bearing what appeared to be an evidence box. "What are you doing here? I do not recall calling you."

He grinned. "Are you going to let me in so I can explain? This is kinda heavy."

"Sorry," she said, moving aside to let him. She waited for him to begin.

"So I was thinking Friday at work—"

"Well, that would be a first," she quipped with a smile, still wondering what was in the box.

"Do you want your gift or not?" he asked. She didn't know what to make of that smile he wore.

"Sorry," she repeated, wondering what had gotten into her lately that caused her to apologizing all the time. "You were thinking at work on Friday..?"

"I realized that we were going on the assumption that this is a serial killer of some sort, but we never went back and looked at the other cases. We've just been looking into Shaw and Sault and everything _they_ did. So I called up a buddy at Metro PD and asked about the other cases. He couldn't help me with the Gans case—"

"The arson."

"Right. And the Quinn case has been transferred to Cold Cases and the detective apparently is never at work. But my buddy did manage to hook me up with the Daltron files." He gestured at the box now sitting on the coffee table.

Her eyes widened slightly at the realization of what was in the box. She looked up at him and smiled widely. She hadn't realized it until that moment, but she missed investigating. It had been a week, and she already missed it. Still, she had to play it cool—Tony would never let her live it down if he knew how much she liked her job. "And you expect me to go through the case files while I am cooking dinner for seven people?"

"Nope," he said, his grin widening. "_We're _going to go through the case files. _Then_ you'll cook dinner for seven people."

She tilted her head as if to consider it before nodding. "That will work." Then, like a kid with a Christmas—or Hanukkah—present, she all but tore into the box to get at what was inside.

Three hours later, there were seven steaks marinating in the fridge (_"The meat refrigerator, Tony. The one on the left. I put a magnet of a cow on it so you would not be confused"_) and two agents running close to empty sitting by a cardboard box in the living room. "I am not seeing anything useful," Ziva admitted, putting down the binder of the case notes with a heavy sigh.

"If I read the transcripts of one more interrogation of someone who _might have_ had access to poison, I'm going to scream," Tony added, rubbing his eyes warily.

"Tony, this was a good idea, but I think we have to admit that it is not getting us anywhere."

"I'm not giving up yet," he said stubbornly, picking up the transcript log with a new zeal. "There has to be something in here, somewhere where Daltron and Rosen crossed paths with Shaw and Sault."

"The synagogue?"

He shook his head. "I haven't found anything yet that even suggests Daltron had ever _been_ to the synagogue," he replied. "Rosen was a regular. When she was still the prime suspect, the detectives talked to both Rabbi and Mrs. Grossman, who both gave her rave reviews and said that she couldn't have done it because of her dedication to living an ethical Jewish life and how she considered the preservation of life to be the most important thing, or something like that."

"Life is most important in the Jewish moral code, for lack of a better term," Ziva said, her attention now focused on her partner. "It is more important than the other various rules, such as keeping kosher or avoiding the _melachot_. If one is having a heart attack during Shabbat, it is not only acceptable, but required, for someone to drive him to the hospital for medical care. Also, if one is starving to death and the only food available is not kosher—say, a pepperoni pizza—he must eat that pizza to stay alive. Dying, when there is an alternative, is not allowed."

"And you made your living killing people." He hadn't meant to say those words aloud; even Tony DiNozzo knew when a joke was in good taste and when it was just mean. Hearing his own voice, his eyes widened in surprise and not a little bit of fear. "I didn't mean to suggest—"

"I have never killed feloniously, Tony," Ziva interrupted. "When I was with _Metsada_, our targets were those who have killed many and would continue doing so if they were not stopped. In that regard, we are actually saving lives."

"Using the ends to justify the means?" he asked. "Isn't that like finding a loophole in God?"

She shrugged. "Rabbis have argued on that point as long as there have been rabbis," she said. "The issue of whether or not taking a life to save a life is ethical."

"And what's the conclusion?"

She smiled. "It is a question of ethics and religion, Tony. There will never be a conclusion." She turned her eyes back down to the case notes and made a face. "I can not even figure out what the lead detective was doing with this case. It is like he was taking the nuclear weapon approach." At her partner's blank expression, she knew she had the wrong phrase and tried to explain. "Taking out many possibilities at once?"

"Ah," he said. "The _shotgun_ approach."

"That does not make any sense," she argued. "A nuclear warhead is much more effective at neutralizing many targets than a shotgun."

"I think the saying came before the nuclear weapon was invented, Ziva. But I'm sure if they had thought of it later, they would have called it the nuclear warhead approach. And what do you mean?"

"He was jumping around from suspect to suspect," she said, stabbing angrily at the binder. "First it was the girlfriend. Then it was the coworker. Then the girlfriend again. Then a brother. He was considering all the possible suspects before he considered the evidence."

"Okay then," he said slowly. "So let's start at the beginning. What evidence do we have?" Revitalized by the new approach, they proceeded to bounce ideas and suggestions off each other until Ziva glanced up at the clock and realized that their—_her—_guests were scheduled to arrive in less than an hour.

* * *

"Dinner was excellent, my dear, just as always," Dr. Mallard was saying as he adjusted his hat the entryway of Ziva's condo. "Before my mother's health took a turn for the worse, she used to make very elaborate meals, not unlike yours. I remember this one time when I was on holiday from Edinburgh and I came home to a full..." His voice trailed off as he was led down the hall by Abby Sciuto, who had turned and given a large wink to Ziva as she linked arms with the medical examiner to escort him out of the condo, leaving Ziva and Tony alone.

"He's right, you know. It was a very good meal." Ziva turned and smiled at her partner, nodding slightly to acknowledge the compliment. She wouldn't have done so if she had realized that she was just encouraging him. "There's this scene in—"

She placed her hand over his mouth, silencing his words. "It has been a good day, Tony. Do not ruin it with movie references."

"Actually, I was referring to a scene... What, no TV shows, either?" She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and turned back to the kitchen to begin cleaning up from the dinner. Despite her distraction and late start preparing the meal, even she had to admit that everything turned out very well, although she thought the dessert could have used a little less sugar. If anyone else thought so, though, they hid it well, judging by the fact that the plate was practically licked clean.

"Since you brought me a present earlier today, Tony, I thought I should return the favor," she said abruptly, breaking the silence that had fallen over the two agents as they loaded the dishwasher. She saw the look on her partner's face and quickly added, "I bought you a gift earlier today." She didn't want him thinking that she was giving sexual favors in return for case files.

"Oh?" She nodded as she reached into a drawer of pots and pans and pulled out a thin wrapped package. "Hmm," he said thoughtfully as he studied it through the paper. "Too big to be a DVD, too small to be a new entertainment system..."

"Just open it," she said, sounding exasperated. He grinned and tore at the paper.

Ziva was watching her partner's reaction closely, but she couldn't quite interpret the expression on his face. "If you do not like it—"

"No, it's not that," he said quickly. "It's just, well, a little unexpected."

There was a little music store in the same block as the grocery store she visited that morning, and she had gone in on a whim to find new piano music for herself when she spotted the lesson book. "I remembered that you used to take piano lessons when you were younger. I did not know how much you remembered, so this may be a bit too basic."

He chuckled. "I can probably still play a C scale, but that would be the extent of it," he admitted. He hadn't even realized until that conversation years ago, when he found out that she played the piano, that for as much as he hated it as a kid, he missed it now that he was an adult.

"I was thinking that since you have to spend so much time here anyway, I can give you lessons," she said. It wasn't the first time she had suggested that, but it was the first time he decided to take her up on it.

"I'd like that," he said honestly. "Thank you." Without thinking first, he leaned forward and kissed her lips, so softly he wasn't even positive that there had been any contact.

When he pulled away, he found her cheeks a little bit more pink than usual. She quickly looked away from him as she began wiping down the already clean counters. "Oh, I almost forgot," she said in a way that told him that she hadn't forgotten at all, but wasn't sure how to bring it up. "The other instructors and I are planning to go out for drinks tomorrow evening after our first day of classes, either to celebrate our success or drown out our failures. I know it is not necessary to establish our covers as boyfriend and girlfriend in front of the people at NDIC, but—"

"Just tell me when and where," he interrupted with a grin, "and I'll be there. Analyst Dinallo would never let Major Kenig down." _And Agent DiNozzo won't let Officer David down, either_.


	22. Chapter 21

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 21**

_A/N: Wow, I've forgotten how much I enjoy reading reviews. It's like an addiction. Reviews are my new crack. Please, keep my supply coming :)_

* * *

The bar was louder and more crowded than DiNozzo would have expected for six in the evening, but he quickly explained that away by the number of people in the various uniforms of the United States military. Not that soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines were always heavy drinkers, it was just that it wasn't the first time that he had visited a bar on a case to find members of the armed services unwinding with their buddies before heading home. He wouldn't be surprised if this same bar was all but deserted by eleven that night. It was, after all, a Monday, and people in the military had a tendency to get up early.

"I thought officers weren't supposed to drink in uniform," he said with a teasing voice as he approached his partner from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his lips to her temple. He felt a brief flash of paranoia at the thought of approaching the wrong woman by the bar—that would have been difficult to explain—but he realized belatedly that she was the only one in an IDF uniform. He could feel, rather than hear, her chuckle before she turned around and gave him a small kiss on the lips.

"Maybe that is a rule of _your _military officers," she replied. "I do not remember that lecture in my officer courses back in Israel." She turned to face the two men standing by her who were now watching with eyebrows raised. "Sunil, Brad, this is my boyfriend, Tony Dinallo. He is a senior Middle East analyst at NCIS. Tony, my co-instructors, Commander Sunil Patel and Major Brad Austin."

"Nice to meet you," DiNozzo said, shaking each man's hand in turn. "Ziva's been talking about how excited she is to teach this course ever since she arrived." He noticed the smiling expressions on all three faces. "And I take it the first day went well?"

"I think it's going to be a good sixteen weeks," Major Austin replied. DiNozzo got the distinct impression that he was being sized up by the Army major. "You getting anything, Tony?"

_Yup, definitely in a silent pissing match with this one_, DiNozzo thought, taking in the bite when Austin said his name. He gave a small smile. _Oh, you have no idea what you're fighting for, do you?_ he thought as he flagged down the bartender. "Sam Adams lager, on the tap," he ordered. The short brunette gave a quick nod as she got his drink.

And then, suddenly, Austin's attitude changed completely as he again turned to size up the NCIS 'analyst'. "Hey, man, you a Buckeye?" he asked, nodding toward the lapel pin camera. DiNozzo grinned.

"Class of '93," he replied proudly.

"No way! I graduated in '98! You been following the team?"

DiNozzo gave him a 'are you kidding?' look. Football was probably the most important aspect of OSU culture. "After last season, I was tempted not to," he joked.

"Oh, come on! We lost two games. And the USC game wasn't even our fault!"

"You know, I never believed all that stuff they said about PAC-10 refs until that game," DiNozzo admitted. "Talk about your shitty calls."

"Have they released rankings for this year yet?" The two continued their discussion about NCAA football, neither noticing the slightly exasperated look on Ziva's face until she gave DiNozzo a small kiss on the cheek.

"You boys and your football," she joked. He had the good graces to look sheepish.

"Sorry, sweetcheeks, it's not every day I run into another Bucks fan out here." He turned back to Austin. "I guess since she lives in Israel she's allowed to not follow college football, but still..." Both men chuckled knowingly, earning an eye roll from the faux-IDF officer. "We can talk about something else," DiNozzo offered.

"No, continue your all-important analysis of what Coach Trexel—"

"Tressel," both DiNozzo and Austin corrected.

"Right. Coach Tressel will do next season. I will go have an adult conversation with Commander Patel."

"You're too good for me," DiNozzo joked as he gave her another small kiss.

"I know," she replied. "And I will expect payment later." She gave him a teasing leer before sweeping her eyes up and down his body appreciatively. He could have sworn she sashayed the few steps to where Commander Patel was standing.

"Damn. You're lucky with that one," Austin commented, both men's eyes still on David's back. "How'd you two meet, anyway?"

_"I was just—"_

_"Having phone sex?"_

"Joint IDF/NCIS mission in Jerusalem a few years ago," DiNozzo said briefly. Sometimes, lies were easier than the truth. And more believable. "But anyway, have you heard anything about the D-line for next season's team? Because defense has been a major weakness the last few years..."

* * *

"So, when do you expect this 'payment'?" DiNozzo joked as the two NCIS agents walked out to the parking lot, his arm around her shoulders. She gave a deep laugh in response.

"I have not yet decided what this payment should be," she joked in return. "I think my car does need to be washed..."

His eyes widened with excitement at the thought of driving the little sports car, even it was only as far as a carwash. "I can do that," he said quickly. She saw the look on his face and 'tsk tsk'ed lightly.

"A car like that, Tony, deserves a real car wash. By hand. I expect to see you outside my apartment with shorts and a bucket of soapy water..." She intentionally let her voice trail off, watching his reaction with amusement.

"You're evil, woman," he finally managed, unable to clear his mind of a slight Israeli with black curls pinned back, soapy water cascading over a bikini-clad body... _Think about something else. Like McGee giving the car a wash...yup, that did it._

"You did a good job tonight," Ziva said, her tone abruptly becoming more serious. They had arrived at their cars—he had unintentionally parked right next to her blue BMW—leaning against them as they continued their conversation.

"It's not much of a stretch for me to sit around a bar talking football," he joked. "It was actually fun."

She looked as if she was going to say something, but then just nodded and turned toward her car. "I will see you tomorrow after my last lesson," she said as she opened her door. "Good night, Tony. And...thank you."

Although he wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, he nodded as he walked over to the driver's side of his car. "You're welcome," he replied. "Good night, sweetcheeks."

* * *

Although Quinn's cold case box had arrived from Metro PD the afternoon before, some unusual activity in the Middle East that DiNozzo figured he should be aware of prevented him from looking at it until Tuesday morning. Now, relatively up-to-date with the situation abroad and finding himself otherwise unoccupied, he wandered down to the evidence locker, where he had stored the box before leaving for the bar.

He wasn't a huge fan of the evidence locker: too quiet, too dreary, too boring for his tastes. Usually, he lasted just long enough to sign in or out whatever he needed before retreating back to the bull pen. Knowing that he needed enough space to spread out the material, though, he resigned himself to what could be hours alone at the uneven table in the dark space. He glanced down at his cell phone, almost willing it to ring announcing a new case and rescuing him from this task.

He was barely into the first binder of case notes when he felt his vision begin to blur. _Focus, DiNozzo_, he ordered himself. Like the notes from the Daltron case a few days ago, these were mind-numbingly boring, but this time, he didn't have an attractive, intelligent Israeli sitting with him to dull the pain. He began to take his own notes in an attempt to keep himself focused.

Dr. Stephanie Quinn was a thirty-one-year-old emergency room physician at Georgetown University Hospital when she was gunned down in her Chevy Chase townhouse sixteen months ago. _Chevy Chase to Georgetown?_ he jotted on the notepad with a frown. It was a nice zip code to have, but there were other nice places much closer to the hospital—and much closer to Dr. Jeremiah Silvers, the Jewish boyfriend who had been out of town. Along those lines, he grabbed for another binder—this one marked 'Interviews'—and searched for the one with Dr. Silvers, again taking notes as he read. _Dr. Jeremiah Silvers, thirty-five, trauma surgeon at Georgetown. Started dating Dr. Quinn seventeen months before incident—_that was a bit of a long time for two adults to seriously date without living together—_was visiting parents in New York for Hanukkah at time of incident._ He frowned and reached for the first binder again. If they were seriously dating, why didn't Quinn join him? _Ah,_ he thought as he read, _she had just returned from a shift at the hospital. She was scheduled to work_. From his own experience dating a doctor, he knew how rigid those shifts could be; after all, nobody really wanted to be working on a holiday, but somebody had to do it.

Reading through Dr. Silver's interview, DiNozzo couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. He was a trauma surgeon, usually worked fourteen to sixteen hour days, five or six days a week. The only times he was consistently scheduled to be off were—Saturdays and Thursday evenings. _For a class at the synagogue_, DiNozzo read, feeling a strange surge of triumph. So this couple had definitely been involved in the couples adult education classes. And since they were there sixteen months ago... He frowned, trying to remember when Shaw and Sault started going. He knew they had been dating for longer than that, but he wasn't sure when they started attending classes. He made a mental note to ask Ziva if she knew.

It was small, but it was something. He was finally feeling like he was making progress. He had proof that at least three of the four couples attended the same synagogue in Georgetown, and at least two of those were in the same adult education class, possibly at the same time.

He was reaching for the case notes binder again when he felt his phone vibrating on his belt. "DiNozzo," he said, not even bothering to check the ID.

_"Where are you?"_ he heard his partner ask.

"Ziva?" he asked dumbly before glancing at his watch. "Oh. I guess I've been here longer than I realized. I'm in the evidence locker, going over the Quinn case."

There was a pause before she spoke again. _"You got the records from Metro PD's Cold Cases?"_

"Yeah. Do you want to come down and join me?"

_"I have a conference call in MTAC in five minutes,"_ she reported. _"Have you found anything?"_

"Well, Drs. Jeremiah Silvers and Stephanie Quinn definitely attended the couples class, so we know that at least three of the four couples went to the same synagogue." Now that he had said it aloud, it didn't seem like that big of a discovery; after all, Ziva had assumed that much weeks before. "I'm still looking for more than that."

_"I will let you know when I done here. Shalom_." He snapped the phone closed and dove back into the dry reports and files. It may not have been much, but even that small discovery buoyed his spirits. At least he knew for himself—finally—that they were on the right track. He vowed to never doubt his partner again.


	23. Chapter 22

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 22**

* * *

Unfortunately for the case, the MCRT had gotten a call about an apparently murdered lance corporal at Quantico, which occupied all of DiNozzo's time for the next two days, preventing him from going back to either the Quinn or Daltron cases. In fact, it prevented him from doing much at all, including spend time with his undercover girlfriend. He realized as he stepped into the elevator at 0400 on Thursday morning for a few hours of much-needed sleep how much harder the job was with three agents instead of four. He tried to remember how they managed before McGee before he realized with a start that at one point, the MCRT had only two agents. _What the hell did Gibbs and I do before Kate?_ he wondered as he made his way to the car.

By the time he returned to the office—a few hours late, but he was proud of himself for coming back at all—Abby had found some pretty conclusive evidence that the corporal's death was actually a very well-staged suicide. Apparently, the kid liked to read murder mysteries in his free time and all but copied one of his favorite novels to stage his own death. Ducky had spoken to a psychiatrist at Bethesda who had been treating him for PTSD after his return from Afghanistan two months before, a tour that included the death of his sniper spotter. All the evidence showed that he hadn't been doing as well as the psychiatrist had thought.

Ziva showed up in the office that afternoon just as Gibbs was storming out, barking something about needing more coffee as they passed each other in the lobby. She was still frowning when she stepped off the elevators.

"What is with Gibbs?" she asked as she dropped her bag at her desk.

"Marine sniper committed suicide three months after his spotter was killed in Afghanistan," DiNozzo summed up in one sentence, his eyes focused on the report in front of him.

"Ah," she replied knowingly. Gibbs didn't quite get into cases involving snipers the way he did those involving children, but they could all see that such cases never failed to affect their boss.

He finally glanced up to see his partner still in her IDF uniform and made a show of looking at his watch. "We're going to be late if you don't hurry up and change," he pointed out. She usually arrived at NCIS after a day of teaching already in her civvies.

"I had to stay late today," she said as an explanation as she dug through her bag for something that would be appropriate for the synagogue. "Is this shirt too low-cut?" she asked, holding one up.

"Not low-cut enough," DiNozzo replied with a quick grin before getting back to what she had just said before. "Why'd you stay late?"

"Commander Patel and I had to consider an appropriate punishment for a petty officer who talked back during the lecture."

"What'd you do, slap his knuckles with a ruler?"

"No," she said bluntly. "He is being removed from the course."

DiNozzo gave a low whistle. "That seems a little extreme."

"He was disrespectful and derogatory to an officer, Tony," she snapped. "It was an appropriate action. If you had any military training, you would know that."

"Hey, I went to a military high school," he said defensively. "Just because I don't do it doesn't mean I don't know about toeing a line." He softened as he realized belatedly that Ziva must have been the officer who had been disrespected. "What'd the guy say, anyway?"

"It is not important. I need to go change now." She turned and quickly made her way to the women's restroom before he had the chance to say anything further.

They were almost to the synagogue—and running five or ten minutes late—before Ziva brought it up again. "We were discussing retaliatory action," she said out of the blue, "which apparently this petty officer found amusing. When I stopped the lecture to ask him to share his thoughts, he said it was ironic that an Israeli military officer was teaching appropriate retaliatory actions considering the events in the Gaza Strip a few months ago."

"Oh," was all he could think to say. He knew how hard Ziva had taken that particular event and how much it bothered her that she was stuck in the States while her country was headed for war.

She shifted the car harshly. "It was a stupid thing for him to say."

"Yeah," he replied, not sure what other response she wanted from him. He knew any words he said would sound completely hollow.

"You do not understand what it is like to live in a country literally surrounded by your enemies," she continued, her voice picking up tempo as she spoke. "You do not know what it is like to be in the military of such a country and to know that everyone around you is just waiting for their opportunity to attack, to know that you do not have a friendly nation in over a thousand miles. You do not—"

"Ziva," he interrupted as they pulled into the parking lot. "Stop saying 'you'. _I_ didn't say anything."

She glared before deflating somewhat as she stepped out of the car. "I know, Tony. I am sorry. It is just...frustrating, to be in a situation where people who should know better do not."

"I know," he said gently, stopping to rub her arms. They were already late; what was a few more minutes? "Just remember, not all Americans are the same. Just like not all Israelis are the same and not all Arabs are the same."

"You are right," she acknowledged. "I should not have taken my anger out on you."

"I don't mind the yelling," he said with a smile. "Just...be sure to stop before you get to the physically lashing out stage."

That finally got a smile out of her. It was a small one, but it was there. "I can not guarantee anything, Tony," she joked. He smiled and pulled her close for a moment before dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

"Come on, we're late," he said gently before guiding her into the synagogue. This time, it was her who sought out his hand and didn't let it go.

* * *

Like the week before, it was easily 2130 by the time they left the synagogue. "Do you want me to drive you back to your car?" Ziva asked as they crossed the parking lot toward her BMW. DiNozzo turned and studied his partner for a second, trying to interpret the question. Was she asking if he wanted to go to NCIS versus straight to his apartment, or was she asking if he wanted to go back to her place?

"Do you want to drive me back to my car?" he asked in return. Two can play at that game. Maybe this way he could actually figure out what she was saying.

"I could use a night close," she finally said, sounding strangely vulnerable for a trained Mossad assassin. Still, he couldn't help but grin at the error.

"Night _cap_," he corrected. "That sounds good. Any particular place in mind?"

She shook her head slightly. "I do not feel like being around other people right now. Would my apartment be okay?"

_Hell, yes_, he thought but didn't vocalize. "Sure," he said instead.

They drove the few blocks back to her complex in silence, and they continued to not say anything as they rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor. It wasn't until they were in the kitchen of the Georgetown condo that Ziva spoke again. "This looks like a nice bottle of wine, yes?" she asked, pulling a shiraz from the wine rack. It wasn't his favorite red, but he wasn't in a mood to complain as he nodded his assent.

"Tell me what you found in the Quinn files," Ziva said as she curled up next to Tony on the couch, wine glasses in hand.

He frowned. "Are you sure that's what you want to talk about?"

"Yes," she said forcefully. She softened at the look on his face. "We have already talked about what had happened today. Now I want to talk about something else. Please, Tony."

Knowing how much she hated talking about her feelings—although she hated it even more when people implied she didn't have them—he nodded and began talking. Just like with the Daltron case, he found that things made a lot more sense when there was someone else there to bounce ideas off of, and the fact that this someone happened to be someone he often tried to impress certainly didn't hurt matters.

Still, they both frustratingly realized by the time they drained the bottle of wine that they still didn't know what it all meant. They had looked at three separate cases, with three separate MO's, with no common link in occupations or lifestyles. The only thing that connected the three was the fact that they were all in serious relationships where one of the parties attended the same synagogue in Georgetown.

"Wait," Ziva said, sitting up suddenly, a frown on her face. "Lt. Shaw, Dr. Quinn, Daltron—they were all the non-Jewish member of the relationship." Her eyes were shining at the sudden realization. "We did not see it before, because two are male and one is female—it appeared random. What if someone was specifically targeting the one who was not Jewish?"

"But, why?" he asked, not wanting to think about the fact that that meant that he would definitely be the target, if they succeeded at their mission. "Why try to take out people who are dating Jews? It sounds like a really strange form of anti-Semitism."

"Because so many American Jews marry non-Jews," she said. "It is a problem, especially in Orthodox and Conservative congregations, if the non-Jew is the woman."

"Because whether or not the kids are Jewish is determined by the mother," DiNozzo said, beginning to understand. "But then it would make no difference if Shaw and Sault got married, or Daltron and Rosen. So in that theory, the only one that makes sense is Quinn and Silvers."

"But even if the kids are technically Jewish, they would be less likely to be _raised_ Jewish," she said. "Even many fully Jewish American families have Christmas trees. I would imagine that almost all mixed families do. In a country organized by the Christian calendar, it is not easy to be otherwise. Many American rabbis have spoken about the loss of Jewish culture in America."

"We're not organized by a Christian calendar," he protested, realizing as the words passed his lips how wrong they were. Ziva rolled her eyes at him.

"If stores are closed on one day a week, the majority of those are Sunday. Christmas and Easter are national holidays. Many school districts have your 'Holy Week' off for spring break. Your-"

"Okay, okay!" he interrupted with a small laugh. "I was wrong. Can we get back to the point? What are you thinking with this—that our murderer is someone who thinks he's protecting the Jewish culture? So then why take out the couples that are learning about being Jewish? Don't you think it would make more sense to target mixed couples that have _no_ interest in Jewish culture? And what about Shaw? Didn't someone say he talked to Rabbi Grossman about converting?"

"I do not know," Ziva admitted. "But maybe it gives us somewhere to look?"

He shrugged. "I'll cross-reference the congregation with published articles or statements about Judaism in America. Maybe we'll get a hit."

"Yes," she agreed. "Maybe we will get lucky." Maybe it was just the wine, but DiNozzo could have sworn that there was something in her voice that made him wonder if she was completely referring to the case.


	24. Chapter 23

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 23**

_A/N: I'm starting to feel evil, dragging things out after I abandoned you for so long...but I'm going to do it anyway :) This chapter's a bit shorter than the others (sorry), but I hope that you enjoy it anyway._

_Oh, and I did know about Vivian (the third NCIS agent during the two JAG episodes... well, I remembered that there had been another agent, but I didn't remember her name), but as she never appeared in NCIS, I was going with the mental story line that she had left the agency (or even just the team, whatever), briefly leaving Gibbs and DiNozzo as the only two agents of the MCRT before Kate resigned from the Secret Service and transferred to NCIS. Not really relevant, I know. I just didn't want anyone to think I was slacking in my useless TV trivia. I watch too much TV. Maybe I should stop watching TV and stop writing fanfiction and start studying instead... And now I can feel you glaring at me from here. Please stop. I was just joking. Seriously. I will continue watching TV and writing fanfic and keeping you entertained. Anything for my readers, just keep the reviews coming._

_And speaking of which... I posted a one-shot a few days ago and hundreds of people have read it, but only five reviews? Seriously? It was that bad? You gotta give me something, people._

_Okay, I guess this isn't really such a short chapter, with all of the author's notes and everything at the beginning. I'll stop now. Back to the story._

* * *

Friday afternoons were free from teaching, a fact of the schedule in this international intelligence course that Officer Ziva David was sure was entirely an invention of her two co-instructors so they could have an extra few hours of the weekend. For her, though, it meant it was time to return to her primary job and her life as Officer Ziva David.

"Welcome back, Officer David," Agent Gibbs said dryly as she stepped into the bullpen, removing her weapon from her holster. She wouldn't admit to actually thinking about it to her coworkers, but it felt good to be back in her cargo pants and a lightweight sweater, free from the service uniform she wore while teaching or the conservative clothes she wore to the synagogue. "How long are you staying this time?"

"It is Friday, Gibbs," she replied. "I will stay until it is time to leave to begin observation of Shabbat before sunset."

"Your big dinner party is this Sunday, right?" he asked. She nodded slightly.

"Yes. And the surveillance feed will be sent here, as it has been for our Saturday conversations with Abby and McGee."

As it turned out, there wasn't much for Ziva—or anyone else—to do around the bullpen, so after an hour of reorganizing the files in her desk drawer, she sauntered over to her partner's desk. "You trying to bust us out early, Ziva?" he asked with a grin.

"Better not be," Gibbs muttered from his desk. They ignored him.

"We do not yet have a menu for dinner Sunday night," she informed him. "Since we are co-hosting this event, I figured you should have a say."

"Steak," he replied promptly. "Those same ones we had last week. Those were amazing." They were also fifteen dollars apiece, but he didn't need to know that.

"We could do steak," she said thoughtfully, perched on the top of his desk. "But I was going to make cheesecake for dessert. We will need to think of another dessert."

"No!" he said quickly. He had had Ziva's cheesecake before; he wasn't going to pass up on it. "The cheesecake stays."

"Then the steak must go. We can not serve dairy so close after serving meat."

"I thought it was okay as long as you cleansed your palate between meals or something."

"That is the other way around," she said. "From eating to dairy to eating meat. You must wait at least three hours after eating meat to have dairy."

"So you're saying we can't have anything with meat."

"Yes, Tony, that is what I'm saying."

"No steak."

"No."

"Salmon?"

"No."

"Oh! What about lobster? Is shellfish meat?"

She threw her hands in the air in exasperation and turned to Gibbs. "Is it too late to change partners? McGee is much more easily trained than Tony."

"Uh, thank you?"

"I don't think that was a complement, McGeek," DiNozzo shot back before giving his partner a wide grin. "So I take it lasagna with sausage is out as a main course?"

"I think we should take a new look at Rosen for Daltron's death," Ziva deadpanned, "because I can see where it would be tempting to poison one's boyfriend."

"Aww, you know you love it."

* * *

"Did you have any luck cross-referencing the members of the congregation with statements about the preservation of Jewish culture?" Their Shabbat dinner consumed, Tony and Ziva were again in the living room, bent over the three boxes of evidence, as Shaw's and Quinn's cases had also found their way to Ziva's condo.

"Rabbi Grossman had written a few articles about the secularization of American Jews, but that was it," he replied, flipping absently through the Quinn case notes. "Just like you said on Thursday, most rabbis of large congregations had said something at one time or another."

She sighed. "So that did not get us anywhere?"

"Not unless you're looking at Rabbi Grossman as a suspect, and personally, I can't see him firing a gun or lacing someone's food with cyanide."

"He does seem to be the non-violent type," Ziva agreed. DiNozzo grinned; she almost made that sound disdainful. "What do we do now?"

"We put away the boxes," he declared. She looked up in surprise. "It's late and we shouldn't be working on the Sabbath anyway. Let's put in a movie."

"We should not be watching television on Shabbat, either," Ziva pointed out.

"Well, no," he admitted. "But this way, at least one of gets to do something we want to do while we're breaking the rules."

* * *

After another mind numbing morning at the synagogue, nonproductive afternoon with McGee and Abby, entertaining piano lesson, and frustrating night sleeping on the futon of the spare bedroom in the Georgetown condo, it was Sunday morning, and after Ziva went on a particularly long run (DiNozzo didn't know what time she left, but she didn't return until 8:30), she dragged him out of the condo to the kosher grocery store she had visited the week before. He glancing longingly in the back toward the butcher, but she steered him clear of the meats as they got everything they needed for their dinner that evening, including a few bottles of white wine that appeared to be the same quality—by their labels as much as their price tags—as the ones that the Israeli embassy had provided them with when Ziva moved in.

"So now what?" he asked as they returned to the apartment, arms laden with groceries.

"Now I will start the cheesecake," Ziva declared, "while you wash the vegetables. I should hope someone who has watched the Food Network can handle that."

They worked side-by-side in the familiar rhythm of two people who were accustomed to sharing a kitchen, and it didn't escape Ziva's notice how comfortable and natural it felt to be working with Tony, how they knew how to step around each other without getting in each other's way, knew how to anticipate the other's needs, knew how to joke with each other and make the other laugh. As she had more and more often over the last few weeks, she felt a pang of regret at the thought that it would all be ending soon, that as soon as the mission was over, they would go back to their old lives and their old routines.

She didn't have much time to dwell on that, however, as it seemed they had just pulled the garlic bread appetizer out of the oven when the doorbell rang. "Rabbi, _Rebbetzin_," Ziva said with a smile as she stepped aside to welcome the older couple. "Welcome. Please come in." She glanced over at DiNozzo just as he was casually flipping the switch to activate the surveillance. The evening had begun.


	25. Chapter 24

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 24**

_A/N: Sorry for the shameless plug for my other stories in the last chapter. I'm not above advertising for myself (obviously), and I'm glad it worked._

_:)_

_Enjoy._

* * *

"So, tell us, how did you two meet?" Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David glanced at each other before groaning good-naturedly at the question.

"It seems that everybody assumes that when an Israeli military officer dates an American intelligence analyst that there is a good story," Ziva said, smiling toward Dara Levi as she refilled her glass of wine. Dinner had gone well, and although Tony had complained loudly the entire time they were cooking about how much he disliked vegetable lasagna, he had ended up with two servings before they moved the party to the living room before dessert. Now, as expected, the conversation had shifted from amusing gossipy stories to amusing gossipy questions.

"Well, it is interesting, sweetcheeks," Tony said with a grin, resting his hand on her thigh as he leaned over to give her a quick kiss. He turned his attention to Levi, whose face was fixed in that 'isn't it sweet' expression that women always seemed to have when another was couple was caught being cute. "I was working over in Jerusalem a few years ago when NCIS got a tip about a possible Hamas action—"

"Be careful, Tony," Ziva chastised lightly. "You do not want to be spilling state secrets at a dinner party."

"I may not be a master intelligence officer, but I do know when to stop talking," he shot back with a grin. "Cutting out all the details, we consulted with the IDF—Israeli Defense Force—and who do they send over to liaise with NCIS but the lovely Captain—she was still a captain then—Ziva Kenig. First it was late nights in the office over take-out food—and you'd never believe how hard it is to get take-out in Israel—and then I asked her to dinner—"

"And the rest is history," Ziva interrupted as she took a seat balancing on the armrest by Tony, who automatically slipped his arm around her waist as he grinned up at her. She rolled her eyes at him before leaning down to kiss him.

"That's so sweet," Dr. Ashley Detert crooned. Ziva mentally rolled her eyes again; she would never understand what women found so fascinating about other people's relationships. If anyone ever accused her of the same, she'd be quick to use the excuse of needing to know the information for the purpose of gathering intel.

"This is a lovely picture," Mrs. Grossman commented, not seeming to realize that another conversation was occurring only a few feet away. "Where was this taken? Jerusalem?" The picture in question was actually a fake—Abby had photoshopped a candid picture of Tony and Ziva at a crime scene together a few years ago, both in their street clothes, he grinning at some inside joke as she pointed out something out of the frame. She had taken the two NCIS agents out of the woods around DC and placed them on a street in one of the touristy areas of Jerusalem, the type of place an American living in Israel would want to see once.

"Yes," Ziva said smoothly, rising from her seat to join the rabbi's wife at the mantel, where that picture had joined the ones sent by her father. "That was Tony's last week in Israel before returning to DC, and I told him he could not leave the country without seeing some of the historic sights. Most of his time in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv had been spent looking for a bar that would show his precious American football games."

"Not most of the time," DiNozzo protested with a grin. "That was only a few months. I spent some time looking for a bar that had college basketball, too."

"Oh, I apologize," Ziva said dryly before returning her attention to Mrs. Grossman.

"And this looks familiar," the rabbi's wife said with a chuckle, pointing at the picture of Ziva as a young IDF soldier. "I remember my two years as an IDF soldier very well. The summer before my last year of high school, when I was seventeen and going through my initial recruit training..." She trailed off, her voice ending in a chuckle. "Well, that was a lifetime ago now."

"What did you do with the IDF?" Ziva asked. Mrs. Grossman began to explain in English before lapsing into Hebrew, which Ziva also switched to. Most of the other people in the room appeared to be following the conversation closely, reminding DiNozzo of when he was little and the family gatherings had devolved into Italian—a language he didn't get a very good handle on until he began learning Spanish in high school—which everyone the parents' generation spoke, but only when they were drinking. And family gatherings in the DiNozzo family always meant that everyone was drinking.

"Are you as lost as I am?" he finally whispered over to Dr. Detert, who nodded emphatically.

"I hate it when they do this," she whispered back. "Jerry doesn't even notice—he was a clerk at the American embassy in Jerusalem for five years and speaks Hebrew better than Sam—but I've been going to the synagogue for almost two years as I still know about four phrases."

"I've got you beat, then," he whispered with a grin. "I know at least five. Do you want to come help me with dessert?" She nodded gratefully and followed him into the kitchen.

"So that story, about meeting Ziva while you were working in Israel, is that true?" she asked as he pulled the cheesecake out of the refrigerator—the dairy refrigerator, marked by a 'Got Milk?' magnet. He chuckled slightly.

"As true as they come," he said. Well, as true as cover stories come, anyway. "I actually started in this business as a South America analyst. I minored in Spanish in college, and when I was finishing grad school I wrote my dissertation on Columbian drug lords and the destabilization of the national government. When 9/11 happened, though, most of the junior people got transferred to Middle East and antiterrorism groups. Best thing I could have asked for, really. Wouldn't have met Ziva if it weren't for that."

Dr. Detert nodded slightly. "So, what happened after you came back here? I mean, I understand long distance relationships and all, but DC to Israel? That's ridiculous."

He thought about how to answer that as NCIS analyst Tony Dinallo, and kept thinking about his own, real-life separation from Ziva for a couple of months while he was Agent Afloat. "I should have called," he mused softly.

"What?"

"Oh," he said, not realizing he had spoken aloud. "I mean, I should have called sooner. We thought having a clean break would be the best thing, since we were both busy people and El Al flights aren't cheap, but it took me about two days to realize that I was miserable without her around. I should have called her then and begged to figure out how we could make this work, but I didn't. She ended up emailing me after about a month saying pretty much everything I was thinking, but much better than I ever could. So we try to make it work, and it usually means we get about a week or two together every six months."

"That's so sweet," Detert commented, her green eyes large with that 'aww' expression that she had earlier. "Wow. I didn't think stories like that happened in real life."

He chuckled, wondering if he overplayed his hand. He quickly changed the subject before she realized that those things really _didn't_ happen in real life. "I've been a bit curious since that first group meeting a couple of weeks ago, but what's the story with that couple who used to be in the group? Shane or something?"

"Chris Shaw and Hannah Sault," she replied before sighing heavily. "That was pretty much the worst thing ever. They were driving down to her cousin's _bar mitzvah_ cerebration when the car wrecked. Chris died there, and Hannah went to the hospital with a collapsed lung and a concussion. She's down in Norfolk now with her parents." DiNozzo noticed her eyes getting misty.

"You knew them well?" he asked gently. She nodded and sniffed once.

"Yeah, we started coming to the group about the same time, about a year and a half ago or so. They're really great people, a lot of fun to be around. You guys would have loved them." She got a faraway look in her eyes. "Hannah and I had a tongue-in-cheek competition going—which of us would be the first to get a ring, which meant that Chris and I had a competition about which of us would finally be accepted by Rabbi Grossman. I was leading that race. I had been turned down the second time for conversion three weeks before he was."

"Turned down?" DiNozzo asked with a frown. Detert smiled slightly.

"Oh, if you're even thinking about conversion, you're in for a treat. Traditionally, an Orthodox rabbi will turn down a Gentile's request for conversion three times before he or she is allowed to state their case in front of the council. And no conversion means no engagement." She glanced down at her empty ring finger for a second before her eyes returned to DiNozzo. "It's a bigger deal for me and Sam than it was for Chris and Hannah—"

"Because you have to be Jewish for your kids to be Jewish," he finished.

"Right," she said with a nod, "and there's no way Sam would want to raise non-Jewish—or even non-Orthodox—kids. But Hannah still wanted that Jewish wedding. I think she was getting tired of waiting, though. I caught her checking out diamond prices on her phone one Thursday during dinner." She wiped away a tear that had fallen down her cheek and gave a bitter smile. "I guess I'm going to be winning those competitions, huh? Really makes you realize how short life really is."

"Yeah," he said softly. _Especially when you have to keep waiting for the right opportunity to come along._

"Were you planning on bringing us dessert sometime tonight, Tony?" His reverie was broken by the sudden appearance of his partner as she practically glided into the kitchen, an expression of mock-frustration on her face. He gave her a grin.

"I didn't want to interrupt the meeting of Hebrew Speakers Anonymous," he said as he bent down to give her a kiss, much smaller and shorter than he would have liked, but, well, they were at work.

"We were hardly anonymous," Ziva replied with a smile of her own, taking two plates of immaculate chocolate raspberry cheesecake from his hands. "We did not mean to exclude you." Actually, she did—the two NCIS agents planned it out before hand, in order for Tony to pull Detert aside to ask about Shaw and Sault.

"I know, I know," he grumbled, following her into the dining room, his eyes drifting downward slightly to enjoy the view. "And this is where you say 'if only you actually learned something while living in Israel...'" She turned her head to roll her eyes in reply.

It was a good hour later before Tony and Ziva said goodbye to Drs. Cohen and Detert as they walked out the door. Both sighed in relief as they closed the door behind the pair of dentists. "Do Jewish dinner parties always last all night?" DiNozzo asked. Ziva seemed to nod in agreement as she headed back to the kitchen.

"Just get in here and help me clean up," she commented. Before doing so, he noticed the surveillance switch still in the 'off' position.

"Goodnight, Probie and Abby," he said into the middle of the room. He had no idea where the cameras were located. "_Laila tov_, Israeli surveillance watchers." He gave a quick grin before flipping the switch the other way, ending the recording.

After loading the dishwasher, Tony all but collapsed onto the couch, Ziva close behind him. "That was really good," he finally said. "But I think I could really use another piece of that cheesecake."

Ziva gave a chuckle low in her throat and reached over to pat her partner's stomach. "I do not think you need another piece of cheesecake," she replied.

"Hey!" DiNozzo retorted, grabbing her hand and giving it a tug, which pulled her toward him. His breath caught for a second as he realized their position: he was still holding her hand out to the side, and she was practically on his lap facing him, their faces only inches apart. They had been in similar positions before, several times, but something always stopped them. This time, though, there were no armed Marines on the other side of the door and no Gibbs and McGee talking into their ears. When DiNozzo saw Ziva's eyes flicker ever-so-quickly to his lips, he made his move, the move that had been building for the past few weeks—hell, the past few _years_.

"Tony," Ziva breathed, stopping when only fractions of a millimeter separated them. He could feel her lips brush his with every syllable. "What are we doing?"

"I'm about to kiss you," he answered, his voice no louder than hers, "and you're asking stupid questions." When she paused, he thought that was his cue, but then she spoke again.

"There is nobody around," she murmured. "There is no need to act—." He interrupted whatever she was going to say by definitively pressing his lips on hers. After a few stunned seconds, he began to feel her respond, deepening the kiss.

"Who's acting?" he asked a moment later as they separated. His eyes already opened, he saw Ziva open hers, dark eyes meeting lighter ones from inches apart. Hers widened slightly at what she saw in his as they both realized that, with the exception of whatever that was when she gave him the piano book the week before, this was the first time they had really kissed as Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David, with no undercover mission between them. Feeling a strange flutter of trepidation she couldn't quite identify, she leaned in to kiss him again.


	26. Chapter 25

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 25**

* * *

Tony DiNozzo groaned and mumbled something incoherent at the sound of his alarm clock, reaching over to slap at the large snooze button on the top. His hand kept moving over the nightstand without encountering anything, making him realize somewhat belatedly that he wasn't in his bed. His eyes shot open as the memories of the night before hit him all at once.

He turned to his other side at the sudden silence in room to see his partner pull herself in a seated position on the other side of the bed. "It's early," he moaned, more to fill the silence than to actually say anything. He knew how crucial the next few moments could be; things that happened at night didn't always look the same in the light of the morning—or even the pre-dawn darkness, in this case. A first time could always be explained away by getting caught in the moment, having too much alcohol, feeling too sorry for one's self...the list went on and on. The last thing he wanted for this to be one of those uncomfortable "oh crap, what did we do last night?" moments.

"It is 0500," Ziva replied, a slight smile on her face as she turned to face him. Well, she didn't look uncomfortable; that was a start. "It is time for my run. You can come with me."

"I don't have my running clothes," he replied automatically, as if that were the reason. "You can stay here. We can find some other way to exercise." He playfully tugged at her arm, encouraged by the warm chuckle that came from her throat.

"I run six miles in the mornings, Tony," she replied, leaning down to give him a lingering kiss. "No offense, but I do not think any man can match that level of exercise in bed." She smiled at the pouting expression on his face. "I will be back soon," she added, somewhat seductively.

"I'll be here waiting," he replied, giving her another pout to give her time to change her mind before rolling over in the king-sized bed, tugging at the blankets that she had somehow wrapped herself in during the night. He heard her laughter trailing after her as she headed away.

The next thing he was aware of was someone gently tugging at his shoulder. He groaned and rolled over to find Ziva leaning over him, a wide grin on her face. He figured she must have just returned from her run; she was still wearing her bright yellow windbreaker and running shorts, although she had removed her shoes and iPod somewhere else. "Mmm. Morning," he said with a smile, tilting his head up to kiss her lips. He spotted the clock on her side of the bed: 0548. "Fast run today."

"I was unusually motivated this morning," she replied before kissing him again.

In his defense, it was still much earlier than he was accustomed to being awake, and he was further distracted by the beautiful woman all but laying on top of him as he began working at lowering the zipper of that yellow windbreaker-a surprisingly difficult task from the angles they were in-but without realizing he was speaking out loud, he heard himself asking, "No bright orange hat?"

That hat had been a dying gift from one of the few men that Tony had seen Ziva get attached to in her years working at NCIS, and he winced inwardly at the reminder of that, knowing that those four words could have broken the mood easier than most others. To his relief, Ziva only shook her head. "I have not worn that hat in over a year," she said, pausing before adding, "I do not think I need it anymore." He grinned at those words and the meaning behind them before kissing her again.

He had just succeeded in getting her out of her running clothes when they heard the familiar buzzing of her cell phone on her night stand. "Ignore it," he murmured, his lips on her neck, tasting the salt on her skin as he proceeded to kiss his way down.

"It could be Gibbs," she replied, even as she made no move toward it.

"That's why voicemail was invented," he concluded. She didn't have anything to say to that, and a couple of minutes later, the cell phone was the furthest thing from either of their minds.

After another round of great sex, DiNozzo was ready to call in sick and spend the entire day in bed—preferably with his partner—but she apparently had other plans. With a groan, she twisted out of his arms and reached for that offending cell phone. "Austin," she said with a sigh as she read the 'missed calls' display. She didn't bother listening to the voice message before she called him back. "You phoned?" she asked without preamble after he picked up. DiNozzo raised himself onto one elbow and leaned over her, gently pushing aside her mussed hair before again kissing the base of her neck.

_"Took you long enough to call back,"_ Major Brad Austin replied, a smirk in his voice. _"Overslept?"_

"No," she replied bluntly. "I was having sex." She smiled wryly at the chuckle she felt against her skin. "What do you need?"

_"Last minute meeting got called. We have to be in at 0730."_ She glanced at her clock and sighed. She'd make it, but that wasn't what bothered her. She was supposed to be spending her free time before the class began at 0900 to discuss last night's dinner with McGee and Gibbs. It looked like DiNozzo would have to handle that without her.

"Okay, I will see you then," she said before snapping the phone closed. She rolled onto her back with another sigh and turned to her partner. "I guess it is time to start the day," she said ruefully. She decided this was all Tony's fault; she usually had no problem leaving lovers behind in bed in the morning. This reluctance was new to her.

He kissed her softly before murmuring, "We'll save time if we shower together," adding a wide grin to the words. She snorted and pushed him off her.

"You do not really believe that, do you?" she asked rhetorically as she climbed out of bed for the second time that morning. When she was done with the shower, she gave him another kiss and the vague promise to see him at work after her last lecture as he headed into the bathroom. Even though she was gone from the apartment after he finished his shower, he couldn't stop grinning.

* * *

Apparently, he was still grinning when he walked into the squad room later that morning, a fact not missed by McGee and Abby. "Well, someone's in a good mood," McGee commented dryly. After being forced to give up his Sunday evening, as well as the standing orders not to schedule anything for Saturday afternoons, it was no wonder he was feeling snide.

DiNozzo just shrugged at the comment. "It's a nice day," he said casually. He didn't know if it was something in his tone or something in his expression, but Abby gaped at his words.

"You had sex last night!" she said, almost accusingly. "And maybe this morning."

Although his first impulse was to grin and confirm it, he went the other way. "Noo," he said slowly, stretching out the syllable. "Lately, my social life has almost been as lame as McStay-At-Home-In-The-Evenings. Only difference is, mine's because of work, not an inherent inability to get a date."

"I date, Tony," McGee replied, annoyed, telling DiNozzo that he succeeded in distracting the younger agent from Abby's words. The forensic scientist herself, though, was not giving up as easily.

"You did too!" she shot back. "It's written all over your face." She had crossed the bullpen to his desk, pinching both of his cheeks tightly.

"I can't believe you!" McGee exclaimed, instantly back on topic. "You went out an hooked up when you're supposed to acting like Ziva's boyfriend! What if someone had seen you?"

"Relax, Probie," DiNozzo said. "I didn't 'go out and hook up'."

"You didn't have to, because Ziva was right there," Abby said, somewhat smugly. "Oh my God! I can't believe it _finally_ happened!"

"What finally happened, Abby?" Gibbs asked as he rounded the corner. Abby's eyes widened slightly before quickly recovering.

"Tony showed up on time," she answered quickly, her expression giving away that that wasn't what they were talking about. If Gibbs noticed, though, he hid it well.

"Where's Ziva?" he asked, glancing over at the empty desk before turning to his senior field agent. DiNozzo considered putting on an innocent expression and saying he had no idea, but he figured the truth—well, parts of it—would be more believable.

"She got a call this morning from Major Austin, said he needed her to come in early. Sorry, Boss."

"Why didn't she call to tell me?" Gibbs demanded.

"Uh, because she called me?" DiNozzo replied. "And she figured I'd tell you. Should we go over the recordings anyway?"

"No," the supervisory agent replied with a shake of his head. "No use going over it twice. We'll just wait until she gets in this afternoon." He glanced around and frowned, as if seeing Abby and McGee for the first time. "Don't you people have work you could be doing?"

"On it, Boss," McGee said quickly, even as he wondered what he was getting on. With the exception of Tony and Ziva's undercover mission, which might go on forever, they weren't working on anything. He waited until Gibbs strode out of earshot before he dared glance up again, to see Abby staring at him intensely. "What?"

"Tony and Ziva," she said impatiently, as if it was obvious, her voice barely above a whisper to avoid being heard by DiNozzo. McGee shook his head.

"I don't believe it," he said stubbornly, his voice just as soft. "I told you, Abby, they're professionals."

"It's _Tony_ and _Ziva_, McGee. They're not _that_ professional. Just wait until she comes in later. You'll see it."

"You do realize I can hear you two, right?" DiNozzo interjected, his eyes still down on the folder on his desk. Abby just glanced over at him with an almost embarrassed expression on her face-likely more related to having been heard than at what she had been heard saying-before giving McGee a large wink and turning on the heels of her large platform boots to head to the back elevators. McGee wondered how long she would be wearing that large triumphant grin, and stifled a sigh at what he was sure would be an exponential increase in theories about his partners' extracurricular activities.


	27. Chapter 26

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 26**

* * *

Just as she had done every day since the mission had begun, Officer Ziva David dismissed her last class of the day, spent fifteen minutes straightening things up in the office in preparation for the next day, changed into civilian clothes, and got in her borrowed blue BMW to drive over to NCIS to regain some semblance of her normal life before heading to the luxurious condominium in Georgetown to repeat the exact same pattern the next day. On this particular day, however, she couldn't control the slight feeling of unease as she was waved through the gates of the Navy Yard, which she couldn't quite explain; after all, everything had been completely normal that morning as she said good-bye to Tony and left him in her apartment to get ready for his day.

Maybe _that_ was the strange part, the fact that everything had been so normal. One would have expected a certain...awkwardness, need to talk about what had happened, _something._ After all, she had just had sex with her partner, her best friend. That should have led to something other than a completely normal morning, something other than the easy familiarity they seemed to have, despite that being their first night together.

_No_, she decided. It was _right_ that everything had been so comfortable, so normal. It wasn't as if it was something that happened out of the blue, or because someone had had too much to drink that night. It had been leading up that for years and vastly accelerated with their recent increase in time together; maybe Tony had been right the year before when he had spoken of inevitabilities. Putting any thoughts of unease out of her mind, she squared her shoulders and stepped out of her car to walk toward the elevator, a slight smile on her face.

She blinked in surprise as the elevator doors slid open. "Abby," she greeted with a nod, joining the forensic scientist in the small compartment. She briefly wondered what Abby was doing in the elevator, but just attributed it to Abby coming up to the bullpen from her lab for some reason.

"Ziva," Abby replied, the corners of her mouth twitching in effort to suppress her grin. "How was your night last night?"

David frowned slightly as she tried to interpret the tone in Abby's voice. Did she know anything? She wouldn't put it past Tony to come into the office bragging about his conquests; it was nothing he hadn't done before. Still, she didn't think he'd be dumb enough to do that when said 'conquest' was a trained Mossad assassin. Even so, DiNozzo was hardly a closed book; she figured Abby suspected something and was fishing for more information. "The dinner went well," she finally answered as the doors slid open to admit them to the squadroom.

As she headed for her desk, she caught sight of her partner, bent over his desk as he studied some sort of report. As happened more often than not, it was McGee who first registered her presence. "Hi, Ziva," he greeted.

"McGee," she replied with a nod. Tony had glanced up and given her a slight smile. She could see the fatigue in his eyes and smirked inwardly; that was probably as much due to their late night together as it was to whatever he was reading. "Which case is that?" she asked, nodding toward the report.

"Gans," he replied, referring to the arson from four years before. "Metro PD finally dug it out of Cold Cases. Ironically, the reason they couldn't find it before was that they thought the box was in their warehouse that burned down two years ago."

She brightened slightly at the fact that they finally had the last piece of their puzzle in front of them. "And?" she prompted.

He shook his head. "I can't even find anything about them attending a synagogue of any sort. I don't know if it's related."

"It is different than the others," she said thoughtfully. "Both were killed, not just the non-Jewish wife."

"I tried checking to see if maybe he was supposed to be out of town that night, but it was a Wednesday night, and he was a kindergarten teacher. He would have no reason not to be home at," he glanced down at the file, "0400."

"It was the wife's fault," Agent Gibbs said as he descended the stairs from the director's office. Both Tony and Ziva frowned.

"Boss?" DiNozzo asked.

Gibbs shrugged. "Always seems to be the case. Glad you can join us, David."

"I was called to a meeting this morning, Gibbs," she protested.

"So DiNozzo tells us. Next time, you call me, understood?" She gave a single crisp nod and avoided looking at her partner, afraid that something would show in her expression if she did. The last thing she wanted to be saying was, 'I did not call him, Gibbs. He was in my bed and heard most of the conversation himself.' She had a feeling that that would be a violation of the all-important rules. "You ready to go over the videos from last night?"

The next four hours were spent watching and discussing the events of the evening before, with DiNozzo and David explaining various points that weren't clear and giving their impressions of what had happened. At some point, two large pizzas appeared, one with what appeared to be pepperoni and sausage, the other plain cheese. Ziva was about to tease her partner about his food choices, but after seeing the look of longing on his face as he removed a slice, decided it would be best not to come between him and his food.

"What was this about?" Gibbs asked as they watched the footage from the living room, when Ziva and Mrs. Grossman had been discussing the IDF in Hebrew. Ziva paraphrased as the conversation took place.

"She had been a pharmacy assistant when she was with the IDF. That was the early 80's; she had many stories to share of times when they were under attack or on the offensive. She is now telling of a time that the hospital pharmacy was held hostage by a pair of Hamas terrorists."

"I wasn't aware they took hostages," DiNozzo commented lightly before taking another slice of pizza.

"If all of their operatives were suicide bombers, they would not last long as an organization," Ziva pointed out. "There was a handgun under the counter, by the medication bottles. The senior pharmacist used it to kill the terrorists. Now Jerry Xi—the one shaking his head—"

"And the only one who looks like his last name can be 'Xi'," DiNozzo interrupted. Ziva ignored him.

"He is commenting about the instability of a country where even the hospital pharmacies are armed. Rabbi Grossman then said that many pharmacists in the States are likely armed as well, because they are targeted for illegal drug trade supply."

"Not exactly relevant to the case," Gibbs commented with a sigh.

"The issue of interrelationships did not come up all night," Ziva agreed.

"It did in the kitchen," DiNozzo jumped in, switching the view on the plasma screen to the camera in the kitchen. "Dr. Detert and I talked about Shaw and Sault, and the difficulties she and Shaw had been having in converting. Both of them had asked twice if they could convert and were denied both times. She said rabbis usually deny it three times."

"That is the tradition," David agreed with a nod. "I was not aware that many American rabbis held to that, however."

"Apparently this one does," DiNozzo pointed out. "She also said that her and Cohen were close to Shaw and Sault. They all started attending classes around the same time, about a year and a half ago."

"So they might have known Quinn and Silvers," Ziva said. DiNozzo nodded.

"Should we bring them in for questioning?" Gibbs asked. They could tell he was getting tired with how much this case had been dragging on, but both still shook their heads emphatically.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Boss," DiNozzo said. "I don't think Detert and Cohen had anything to do with any of the deaths, and neither was around for the Gans arson or Daltron poisoning. I've established a rapport with Detert; I can try to bring up Quinn and Silvers next time we talk."

"Do it," Gibbs ordered. "And continue going over those case files. Maybe you'll see something that Metro PD missed. Run things by Ducky and Abby if you have to. McGee." He turned to the junior agent and frowned slightly, trying to think of what to have him do. "I want you to take another look at everyone who _didn't_ die. Do a complete background check on them, find out what they were up to before their significant others were killed and what they've been doing since. Ziva, you and Mrs. Grossman got along fairly well last night. See what you can from her about Quinn and Daltron."

"It will be suspicious if I try to speak to her before Thursday evening," she pointed out.

"Then speak to her Thursday evening," he replied. He looked around the room and saw how tired all three of his agents looked and gave a small sigh. "Go home, all of you. Get some sleep. You all look like crap."

* * *

McGee, being McGee, had followed Ziva and Tony into the elevator as they left the squad room, leaving them standing in opposite corners, smirking at each other behind McGee's back for the ride down to the parking level. They said their goodnights to the junior agent before stepping into their respective vehicles.

As soon as she closed the door to the embassy car, Ziva felt the vibration of her cell phone in her pocket. She pulled it out and smiled at the name on the display. "That did not take long," she said as a greeting.

_"I was starting to think McGee was going to follow us home,"_ DiNozzo replied dryly. He paused before asking, _"So, your place or mine?"_ She could hear the humor in his voice, but was able to recognize it as a legitimate question.

"I will still want to go running in the morning," Ziva answered, "and I did not bring my running clothes. I would prefer my apartment."

_"It's a good thing I thought to swing by my place on my way into work and get a change of clothes, then,"_ he replied. _"I'll see you there."_ She snapped the phone clothes as she shifted into gear, wondering, not for the first time since she woke up that morning, what they had gotten themselves into.


	28. Chapter 27

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 27**

_A/N: I know a few of you have written with your guesses as to who the killer is, but I haven't responded to any of you (yeah, I'm mean like that). If you really want me to spoil the ending and let you if your guess is right or not, tell me, and I will. If not, feel free to keep guessing and keep reading and see if you're right in the end._

_By the way, thanks again for the reviews. You guys are amazing._

* * *

To Ziva David's surprise, Tony DiNozzo not only woke when her alarm went off at 0500 the next morning, he got out of bed and changed into running clothes to join her. Although she usually savored the fifty minutes or so of exercise every morning as her time to herself, she found she enjoyed having a running partner, even if she did have to slow her pace after the fifth mile. Tony was mostly still athletic from his college days, but he didn't make a habit of running six miles a day as she did. She wondered how long it would be before he could keep up, especially on her even longer runs, then scolded herself mentally for the thought. The mission would end eventually; it wasn't as if this was a permanent arrangement.

"Commander Patel is teaching the last two hours of class today," Ziva commented as she buttoned the shirt of her service uniform later that morning, "so I can leave early to help you go through case files, if that would be helpful."

"Never hurts to have a second set of eyes," DiNozzo replied with a shrug. "I was thinking we should go out to dinner with Cohen and Detert at some point, just the four of us. It might be easier to get them to talk away from the rest of the group."

"That is a good idea. Speaking of going out, it is Commander Patel's birthday today. We were going to go out this evening to celebrate, if you would like to come."

"Sure," he agreed. He gave her a grin. "And I promise I won't talk about football to Major Austin."

She rolled her eyes slightly. "I believe he approves of you. He has stopped hitting me since he discovered that my 'boyfriend' is an Ohio State alum."

He grinned at her error. "Hitting _on_," he corrected. "I'm pretty sure if he were actually hitting you, you would have killed him by now."

"That is probably true," she said, nodding thoughtfully. "We can leave from NCIS after work." She glanced down at her watch. "I should be going. I will see you this afternoon, yes?"

"Yeah," he replied, abandoning his tie for a moment to give her a small kiss good-bye. He waited until the door closed behind her before adding softly, "I'm looking forward to it."

* * *

Agent Tim McGee was already at his desk when Tony DiNozzo walked into the squadroom. "Morning, Tony," he greeted, getting an absent-minded nod in return. The junior agent frowned slightly, thinking about Abby's comments the morning before, and found himself wondering, not for the first time, if there was some truth to them. Figuring that knowing was better than over-analyzing every one of both of his partners' moves, he cleared his throat slightly and began, "So, uh, I know it's none of my business, but Abby seems to think—." He stopped abruptly at DiNozzo's hand in the air.

"Before you say another word, Probie, ask yourself one thing: do you really want an answer to that question?"

McGee frowned again as he considered that before realizing that the senior field agent was right. Sometimes blissful ignorance was the right answer. "Nevermind," he muttered instead. He couldn't miss DiNozzo's triumphant grin out of the corner of his eye.

Neither agent said much to each other for the next few hours, as they both concentrated on their tasks assigned by Gibbs the evening before. Tossing one folder aside after deciding its contents were useless to him, DiNozzo picked up another and frowned as he opened it. _Autopsy report_, he thought to himself, groaning inwardly. He had been avoiding that particular file since he had gotten the Quinn case notes from Metro PD; doctor-speak gave him a headache on the best of days.

He brightened suddenly as he remembered Gibbs instructions to use Abby and Ducky as much as he needed. If ever there was a time to use the old Scottish medical examiner, it was now. "Later, Probie," he said casually as he headed for the elevator, folder in hand. McGee glanced up, confused, but the elevator doors had closed between him and DiNozzo before he got a chance to say anything.

He stepped out of the elevator on the lowest floor and strode into autopsy. "Hey, Palmer," he greeted the medical examiner's assistant. "Is Ducky around?"

"I'm right over here, dear boy," Dr. Mallard replied, stepping out from a side room. "Mr. Palmer and I have had a shortage of visitors lately, so I thought this would be a good time to assure that the storage area is properly supplied. There was this one time when I was serving as a physician with the—"

"Ducky," DiNozzo interrupted, holding up the file. "Maybe you can tell me about it some other time. I have an autopsy report I can use your help with."

"Ah, yes," the medical examiner replied, reaching for the folder. "No doubt related to the case you and Ziva have been working on in your all-too-infrequent off-hours."

"Right," DiNozzo said. "This is Dr. Stephanie Quinn. She was shot in her apartment about sixteen months ago. There were some items missing, so Metro PD assumed it to be a burglary gone wrong, but I thought it wouldn't hurt to take a look at the autopsy."

"A wise thought, Anthony. Not to speak ill of my colleagues in the Metro ME's office, but they do have an excessive workload and often miss things that they should not. Who was the medical examiner in this case?" He frowned as he flipped through the sheets of paper, then shook his head as if frustrated. "A fourth-year medical student," he said with a heavy sigh. "That is not too unusual, that the assistant medical examiners will have medical students perform the autopsies on so-called 'simple' cases, where the cause of death is not in question, but it is a practice that I find horribly irresponsible. There is much more information that can be obtained from an autopsy than a basic cause of death. Following the path of the bullet, for example, can tell you many things about the shooter, such as his height, his confidence with a sidearm, whether or not he was surprised—." He stopped abruptly, a frown on his face as he turned a page in the folder. "Hmm," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Ducky?" DiNozzo prompted.

"You said Metro PD believed this case to be motivated by robbery, did you not?"

"That's right," the agent replied. "Dr. Quinn's computer and few pieces of jewelry were missing. Dr. Silvers, the boyfriend, confirmed that he had just been to a jewelry store about a week before. They questioned everyone who might have known that, but didn't come up with anything. Why?"

The medical examiner spread the photos of the body from the crime scene and the beginning of the autopsy onto one of the empty stainless-steel tables. He adjusted his glasses before leaning over one of the pictures and pointing. "If all they were after was some valuables, Anthony, can you explain why they would have missed that?" Right under Dr. Mallard's finger on the photo was what appeared to be round aquamarine stone on a silver or white gold chain around Dr. Quinn's neck. "Perhaps that was one of Dr. Silver's recent purchases?"

"How the hell did they miss that?" DiNozzo muttered, inwardly asking himself the same question: how did _he_ miss that? How could you consider the motive of a crime to be robbery when the so-called robbers missed a necklace easily worth a few hundred dollars literally right in front of their faces? "Thanks, Ducky," he said, straightening to leave the autopsy suite as an idea suddenly came to him. "You were a big help."

"But I haven't even gone over the autopsy report yet!" Dr. Mallard protested.

"I'll come back to talk to you about it later," DiNozzo called out over his shoulder as he stepped back into the elevator.

"Probie!" he snapped, stepped out of the elevator even as the doors were opening. McGee looked up in surprise. "What do you have on Silvers?"

"Uh, from the Quinn case?"

"No, McObvious, the _other_ Silvers," DiNozzo shot back sarcastically. McGee felt his cheeks flush slightly.

"Right. Uh, Dr. Jeremiah Silvers. He was a trauma surgeon at Georgetown—"

"I know _that_, McGee. What has he done since his girlfriend was murdered?"

"About a month after Dr. Quinn died, he resigned his position at Georgetown and moved to Beer-Sheva. Columbia University has a satellite medical school there-Medical School for International Health. He's now an associate professor of trauma and critical care surgery at their hospital."

"Israel," DiNozzo replied dumbly, his mind moving faster than his mouth could process.

"Yes, Tony, that's where Beer-Sheva is."

"Get me his phone number," the senior field agent demanded, trying to find where in his notes he had recorded what he was looking for.

"Dr. Silvers' phone number?" McGee echoed.

"I'll let you know when you're allowed to ask stupid questions, Probie. Now is not the time." He found his notes from the Shaw case on his computer and quickly began scanning. "Ah-ha!" he said triumphantly, just as McGee handed him a sticky note with the long foreign phone number. His eyes went back and forth between the computer screen and the yellow slip of paper. "They're the same," he said in wonder.

"What's the same?"

"Lt. Sault called the same number in Israel on the first Sunday of every month," DiNozzo explained. "Apparently, she was calling Dr. Silvers."

"But why?"

"That's what I'm going to find out," DiNozzo replied, reaching for his phone. "Any idea what time it is in Israel?"

"You're going to call him?"

"What did I just say about stupid questions, Probie?"


	29. Chapter 28

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 28**

* * *

Dr. Jeremiah Silvers was in the middle of an emergency splenectomy when NCIS Special Agent Tony DiNozzo called, so he left a message with the receptionist or nurse or whoever it was that answered the phone to call him back at Dr. Silvers' earliest convenience, hoping that he was remembering the time zone difference in the right direction. The last thing he needed was a phone call from Israel at 0200 the next morning or something equally ridiculous.

Fortunately, it was about 1300 when Silvers called back. "I got a message that you called," the trauma surgeon said curtly as a greeting. If DiNozzo had the time zones correctly, it was 2000 there, and if the emergency splenectomy was any indication, Silvers had had a long day. He decided that a little bit of attitude was probably appropriate. "What does NCIS need with me?"

"We're investigating the death of a Lt. Christopher Shaw," DiNozzo began. Silvers gave a short barking laugh.

"I'm pretty sure I have a good alibi for that," he stated, "seeing as I was in Israel."

"You know about Lt. Shaw?"

"Of course I know," Dr. Silvers replied, sounding as if he were speaking to the dumbest student in the class. "He was living with my cousin."

"Hannah Sault is your cousin?"

"Well, more like my second cousin," Silvers admitted. "But we didn't realize that until we had known each other for a few years. Both of our fathers are rabbis, and we were sent to the same summer experiences in Jerusalem when we were teenagers. She's quite a few years younger than me; her first summer was my last. But what does any of this have to do with a car accident?"

"Lt. Shaw was shot, Doctor," DiNozzo explained.

"I'm pretty sure I didn't do it."

The NCIS agent have a short chuckle. "Your name come up as part of a related case. Dr. Stephanie Quinn."

Silvers was silent for a moment. "What does Steph's murder have to do with Chris?" he finally asked.

"There have been at least four murders of people who were dating members of the Jewish community here in DC in the last few years," DiNozzo explained simply, glossing over any details, "including Dr. Quinn and Lt. Shaw."

There was another long pause. "That doesn't seem like much to build a pattern on," Silvers finally said. "I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

"Well, that's the thing," DiNozzo replied. "We here at NCIS don't really believe in coincidence."

"Statistically, it wouldn't be unheard of."

"We're just looking into all angles."

Silvers gave a long, annoyed sigh. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

"Metro PD ruled Dr. Quinn's murder a home invasion," DiNozzo prompted.

"That's right," Silvers agreed. "Her laptop and about a thousand dollars worth of jewelry were missing. I still don't see what that has to do with Chris."

"Well, we're trying to figure that out, too," DiNozzo replied diplomatically, even as his patience with the surgeon was wearing thin. "But back to the jewelry. You just visited a jewelry store the week before Dr. Quinn was killed, right?"

"Yeah. I got her an early Christmas/Hanukkah/whatever present—an aquamarine on a white gold chain, which I gave her the day I left for New York, so about three days before her death. I also bought an engagement ring, which I was going to give her when we took our post-holidays vacation together—a Caribbean cruise in the middle of January. Never got the chance to do that."

"I'm sorry," DiNozzo said, feeling slightly awkward saying so, as Dr. Silvers didn't really seem all that remorseful. Of course, more than a year had gone by. "Metro investigated everyone who knew about the jewelry, right?"

"Yeah, but that seemed like a waste of time. If someone was after the jewelry, why go to her place instead of mine to lift it? And why wait until a week later?"

DiNozzo had to admit that the surgeon had a good point. It seemed like Metro PD was just looking for excuses to stick with the home invasion/robbery theory. "Do you happen to remember the name of the jewelry store you went to?"

"Of course," Silvers replied. "Same one I went to every time I bought any sort of jewelry or needed my watch repaired while I was living in DC. Steiner's Jewelers." DiNozzo clicked through the file on his computer until he found Lt. Shaw's credit card receipt, confirming what he thought he remembered: the jewelry store Shaw had frequented was none other than Steiner's Jewelers. Silvers filled in the silence that had fallen over the phone. "Metro investigated them, too, which is ridiculous. Saul Steiner is an eighty-five-year-old Holocaust surviver. I doubt he'd be after a laptop and thousand dollars worth of jewels. If that's what he wanted, he'd rob his own store, not drive out to Chevy Chase to kill Steph. I doubt he can even handle the recoil of a gun."

"Anyone else working for Steiner?"

"His daughter, Elsa, who must be in her fifties. She does most of the work, and Saul just sticks to the complicated and big orders, like that twenty-eight thousand dollar engagement ring." DiNozzo whistled silently; must be nice to have a surgeon's salary. "During the holidays and the weeks before Valentine's Day, they hire some extra clerks, but Metro checked them out, too. Everyone was clean."

DiNozzo changed the subject abruptly. "You and Hannah Sault are pretty close, right?"

"Yeah, fairly," Silvers agreed. "I helped her find a place when she was moving to DC and helped move Chris' stuff in a year later. We met for dinner or lunch every once in awhile, when we both had time. When she first moved, I suggested places for her to shop and get her dry cleaning done and routine stuff like that."

"You guys went to the same synagogue?"

"The one in Georgetown," Silvers confirmed. "And then when her and Chris started having some problems because of the whole Jewish-not Jewish thing, I suggested they go to this adult education class there. The rabbi and his wife teach this series that's focused on mixed couples. Steph and I had been going for quite a few months when Chris and Hannah started coming."

_Ah-ha!_ DiNozzo thought, even though he had already established that they knew each other through family. "So you helped them out."

"Yeah," Dr. Silvers said thoughtfully. "All of their problems, well, Steph and I had been through those already, so we knew what they were going through." He paused. "That was a long time ago, Agent DiNozzo, and I don't want you to think I'm some cold-hearted bastard, but I've moved on. I'm dating someone else now, an infectious disease physician here at this hospital." He gave a short barking laugh. "I guess that says something about me, that I can't even leave the hospital to find dates, but that's not really the point. Avi's Jewish, too, and, well, that makes things a lot easier for us. I really did love Steph and would have married her, but I never realized until now that love doesn't have to be a lot of work, do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah," DiNozzo said automatically, even though he didn't. His past relationship—relationship? He didn't know how to define what was happening between him and Ziva yet, and he could hardly call anything else a 'relationship'—had just shown him that love was a difficult and painful thing to deal with. He cleared this throat slightly; he didn't really want to talk about Dr. Silvers' relationships, or any other relationships, for that matter. "So, uh, how well did you know Chris Shaw?"

"I just knew him through Hannah, we didn't really hang out without her there. Not exactly the same social circle, you know? Not that there was anything wrong with him, we just had our own friends. The only time I can remember talking to him outside of conversations with Hannah or at the synagogue was when he saw a bracelet I got Steph and asked where I got it. He was looking for a birthday present for Hannah or something and thought some earrings would be nice, so I gave him Saul's name and address."

DiNozzo processed that information with a raise of his eyebrows, his pen idly sketching the connections between Saul Steiner's jewelery store and Lt. Shaw's death. Despite Dr. Silver's insistence otherwise, he wasn't willing to chalk it up to a coincidence. He drew an arrow between Silvers and Shaw, but there was still a blank spot between Steiner and Silvers. "This may seem like a random question, Doctor, but do you happen to remember who first told you about Saul Steiner?"

"Of course," Silvers replied automatically. "It was Saul's great-niece. Lena Rosen."

* * *

Officer Ziva David entered the squad room at NCIS to find her partner's attention focused on the computer monitor in front of him as he typed away furiously—well, as furiously as he could. She smiled slightly at his continued awkwardness around computers, despite the fact that he used them every day. Her smile turned into a frown at the realization that she found that somehow endearing. _I will not turn into one of those women who thinks everything her boyfriend does is 'adorable' or 'sweet',_ she scolded herself. Instead, she put on a slightly wicked grin and made her way around to the other side of his desk.

"Find anything interesting?" she asked innocently, her mouth only millimeters from his ear. He jumped nearly a foot off the chair at the surprise.

"God, woman!" he scolded. "How many times have I told you not to do that?"

"I have lost count," she replied lightly. "Hello, McGee," she greeted as the third agent stepped into view.

"Uh, hi, Ziva," McGee replied, seeing the Mossad officer all but molded to the senior field agent, her face next to his and her loose hair covering his shoulder. "Do you want me to give you guys some privacy?"

She shrugged. "We are only looking at Tony's computer, but we can do other things, if you prefer."

"No, thanks," he said quickly. "Just...continue with whatever you're doing."

"What _are_ we doing, Tony?"

He swallowed at the memory of the last time she asked that, a few nights before, and the events that immediately followed. _Later_, he scolded himself. "I found something else Daltron, Quinn, and Shaw had in common: Steiner's Jewelers." He filled her in on the crime scene photos and conversation with Dr. Silvers. "I called Steiner's, and asked his daughter, Elsa, for their client list to compare to homicide victims, but she didn't take the implication that their business is somehow related to a mysterious DC crime syndicate too well. I'm working on drafting a court order."

"Can McGee not hack into those records?"

"That's not legal, Ziva," DiNozzo said as if speaking to a child. "Besides, he already said he couldn't."

"Their records aren't on any sort of database or list on-line," McGee explained. "The best I could do is check for people who made credit card purchases at the jewelery store, but I would literally have to search millions of records one-by-one. It would take decades, if not longer."

"I hope our mission does not take that long."

"Getting tired of pretending to my girlfriend already, Ziva?" Tony asked with a grin. He didn't see the slight flicker of uncertainty in his partner's eyes at the word 'pretending'. "So as I see it, someone in the family doesn't approve of Rosen and Daltron dating and takes Daltron out of the picture. Then—"

"They expand to all mixed couples?" Ziva interrupted, shaking her head. "That is a stretch, Tony, even for you."

"What do you mean, even for me? I'm a highly trained criminal investigator—"

"Ziva's right," McGee put in. "Crimes of passion don't suddenly expand to killing sprees."

"Maybe whoever it was rationalized the crime as a favor to the Jewish people. Once he started to see it that way, maybe he decided to keep doing favors."

Ziva considered that for a moment before again shaking her head. "I agree that there appears to be a connection between the jeweler and the murders, but I do not think it is that simple."

"So what is it?"

"I do not know, Tony, or I would have said something already. Maybe things will be clearer once we get Steiner's records. But I think we should label it a day and get ready for Commander Patel's dinner."

"Call it a day," DiNozzo corrected as he began packing up his stuff.

"Same difference," Ziva replied with a shrug. "It is only semantics."

"Yes, Ziva, it's semantics. Word choices are what make idioms what they are. What if somebody had used the wrong word when saying that in Hebrew?"

"That is not a Hebrew idiom." They continued to argue lightly about it as they headed for the elevator to take them to the parking garage, McGee watching them silently. At one point, Tony jokingly grabbed Ziva's shoulders and gave them a squeeze, and the junior agent waited for the retaliatory action which never came; for as much as she did it, Ziva didn't like it when people invaded her personal space, and often reacted violently, but not this time—almost as if she was accustomed to having Tony so close. He frowned and found himself wondering, once again, if Abby was on to something.


	30. Chapter 29

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 29**

_A/N: First of all, thanks for the reviews. They give me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside. That being said, after this chapter, please don't review with a bunch of "Ziva shouldn't use contractions!" comments (any other reviews will still be welcome). I know Ziva shouldn't (should not?) use contractions when speaking English; however, for a good portion of this chapter, she's speaking Hebrew (but I wrote it in English, because I don't know Hebrew and most of you don't, either), and so the grammar would be completely different anyway, so I put in contractions, just because. So to summarize-I know Ziva shouldn't use contractions when speaking English, and when you see them here, she's probably not speaking English. Just thought I'd try to get that out of the way._

_Enjoy._

* * *

Tony had insisted that he drive his Mustang to Commander Patel's birthday dinner, but it was Ziva who was driving it back to his apartment, despite Tony's weak protests to the contrary. With how much he and Major Austin had to drink—there had been a sporting game of some kind on the television at the bar, and the two had reverted to college frat boys and turned it into a drinking game—it wasn't as if there was another option.

He had passed out practically as soon as his bed came into view, leaving a fairly annoyed Mossad officer standing alone in his kitchen, deep in thought as she wondered at her own reluctance to leave and go back to the empty Georgetown condo. Sex was obviously not an option that night, and based on how much he had to drink, Tony wouldn't be up for any sort of physical activity in the morning—either involving the bed or a pair of running shoes—but still she stayed. She sighed quietly at the mixed-up emotions floating through her head as she poured herself a glass of wine. It was one of the pricier bottles on his wine rack, and if questioned, she'd admit that it was her annoyance—at him, and at herself—that caused the slight vengeful streak that left her reaching for that one instead of another.

On the drive out to the bar, Tony and Ziva had discussed how to proceed with the Steiner's Jewelers angle. They were still going to pursue a court order—which McGee would deliver if approved, as Tony shouldn't show his face as Special Agent Tony DiNozzo around people who might see him in the synagogue as Analyst Tony Dinallo—but he wasn't content leaving the jewelry store to the fate of a piece of paper that may or may not arrive. He had asked her if she needed any new jewelry. He wore a small smile on his face as he said those words, to make her think he was joking about going in to see Steiner, but knowing him, she wouldn't be surprised if she found herself with a new bracelet or pair of earrings, courtesy of the NCIS expense account. She found herself wondering what kind of jewelry Tony would buy—would he be the sort to buy something large and ostentatious, or would he have taken enough notice to her own jewelry choices and buy her something smaller and more practical? As she thought about that, she absently fingered the one piece of jewelry she wore consistently, her gold Star of David necklace, and drifted off to sleep on Tony's couch remembering a time she had seen an identical necklace around the neck of a very different girl.

Samal Rishon_ Ziva David studied her reflection in the mirror for a long moment, trying to focus on anything but the unruly mop of dark curls on top of her head. Her uniform was crisp and starched, her medals in the proper order, her makeup flawless. Lost in thought about the fact that this would be her last time in such a uniform, she didn't hear the soft footsteps of a young girl behind her until she spoke._

_"I hope you're not planning on wearing your hair like that," Tali David said in a mocking voice. Like always, she was ready first, her dress exactly the sort one would expect of a modest Jewish teenager, her long dark curls, almost identical to her sister's, perfectly arranged to spill over her shoulders just so. Around her neck, hanging over the high neckline of her dark dress, was a gold Star of David pendant that she had received on her twelfth birthday. Ziva had one just like it in a box somewhere in the back of her closet. Unlike Tali, who wore hers every day, Ziva couldn't remember the last time the delicate piece of jewelry had been around her neck. It somehow seemed too fragile and refined for a non-commissioned officer of the Israel Defense Force. _

_"I was trying to decide if it should be up or down," Ziva finally admitted, her dark eyes meeting her sister's in the mirror. Tali appeared to think about this for a minute before answering._

_"Up," she declared. "It looks more official and military-like." Before her sister could protest, she reached forward and began arranging Ziva's hair herself. "This is your last time in uniform, after all, so you should look official." She expertly sectioned off the hair, reminding Ziva, yet again, of how much more feminine her younger sister was than herself. "Do you think Dad ever minds that he didn't have a son? I mean, especially at times like this, with these formal military settings and everything?"_

_Ziva did think about that sometimes, especially as she considered her childhood and the way he raised her to fire weapons and defend herself and take notice of things with the sharp eye of one he expected to follow in his footsteps to a career in intelligence. As she had gotten older, she began to suspect that there was something else about Eli David, some dark secret that neither daughter was to be privy to, and she began to wonder how that fit into the way the girls—especially Ziva—were raised. Instead of vocalizing any of those thoughts, she put on a playful smile. "How can he mind, Tali, when he has two beautiful daughters instead?"_

_Tali smiled at the words, but Ziva could tell she wasn't convinced. Still, she expertly changed the subject, being the peacekeeper she always was, even without conflict present. "I'm glad you decided to leave the IDF and go into Mossad. You're much too beautiful for that drab olive green."_

_Ziva laughed as her eyes met her sister's in the mirror. "Only three more years, Tali, and you'll be the one in olive drab."_

_Tali laughed slightly at that and shook her head, almost as if to deny it. "I wonder if Dad would let me defer service until after I finished medical school. I could do more good as a surgeon for the IDF than just another soldier."_

_"'Just another soldier'?" Ziva mocked with a smile. "Is that what you think of me?"_

_"I didn't mean it like that!" Tali protested, making Ziva laugh. She knew her sister would never insult her like that. For as long as she was able, Tali had looked up to everything her older sister had done, wanting to emulate her whenever possible, but the two were so different in everything but outward appearances, and Ziva worried that Tali, in efforts to make herself more like Ziva, would end up hurt in the process._

_"I didn't know you decided on medical school," Ziva said, changing the subject. Tali shrugged as best she could with her hands still in Ziva's hair._

_"I haven't for sure," she admitted. "But I think I could be good at it." With how smart the fifteen-year-old was, she could be good at just about anything she put her mind to._

_"Well, don't go planning on skipping your compulsory IDF service just yet. If you do well, maybe Dad will pay for you to go to one of those fancy British medical schools."_

_Tali laughed again. "Scottish," she corrected jokingly. "I decided on Edinburgh. That's in Scotland."_

_"Israel has medical schools too, Tali. You don't have to go away."_

_"This coming from someone who is leaving in two weeks for a year of training and won't even tell her family where?" Although she wore a smile on her face, Ziva could see the hurt in Tali's eyes. "Are you sure we can't see you for an entire year?"_

_"That's the way it's done," Ziva said gently. "They aren't going to make an exception for me just because my father is a deputy director." She tried to catch Tali's eye in the mirror, but the girl was almost making it a point to keep her eyes focused on the already perfectly-styled hair in front of her. "It will go by quickly, Tali, you'll see. And you'll be so busy with your studies you won't even notice I'm gone." As it was, the IDF kept her away from her parents and younger sister more than she would have liked._

_"I'll still miss you."_

_Ziva smiled at her sister's reflection. "I'll miss you, too, Tali. I'll miss you every day we're apart."_

* * *

Tony DiNozzo groaned as something he couldn't quite identify woke him from a deep sleep. If the pounding in his head, sour taste in his mouth, and fact that he was still wearing his clothes from the night before were any indication, he had hit the bottle a little bit too hard before making it home.

He sat up in bed and blinked against the searing light streaming in from the window before glancing down at the other side of the bed, seeing the sheets completely undisturbed. He remembered Ziva driving him home after Commander Patel's birthday dinner in his Mustang; knowing her, he wouldn't put it past her to take his car to drive herself back to Georgetown. It looked like he'd be taking a taxi to work.

_Work_. He groaned at the thought of the word and collapsed back onto his pillow, feeling nowhere near well enough to get anything done. He tried to figure out how many sick days he had left, but abandoned even that simple of a calculation when it didn't come to mind. Maybe Gibbs wouldn't notice if he didn't show up.

That thought caused an actual laugh to come to his lips; as if his absence would be something Gibbs failed to recognize. The sound died when he heard the door to his bedroom opening, revealing Ziva in her running clothes. Judging from the flush of her face, she was just returning from a run, but he didn't have the energy to turn his head to check his clock. "I woke up alone," he said, not even realizing until he vocalized those words how much that fact bothered him. Most of the time, he preferred it; the morning after tended to be his least favorite part of a date.

"I slept on the couch," Ziva replied matter-of-factly, not meeting his eyes. "You were very drunk. I did not want to risk you throwing up on me."

"Eh," Tony muttered, finding himself unable to form anything more complex. She seemed rather annoyed that morning, and part of his mind—the part that was somewhat functioning—was wondering if it was because of his getting drunk the night before or if something else was on her mind. If he remembered, he could always ask her later.

"You better hurry up and get ready," Ziva continued, heading for the bathroom to shower. "I am leaving in your car in less than an hour to go to NCIS to get my car, whether or not you are with me at that time."

"You can't just take my car," DiNozzo replied, the thought of her driving it without supervision enough to make him indignant. She raised her eyebrows at that as a response before closing the bathroom door. He groaned and finally dragged himself out of bed.

Fifty minutes later, he was behind the wheel of his Mustang—hangover or not, he still preferred for her not be driving—as they passed through the gates at the Navy Yard. "Have McGee check Cohen and Detert's credit card statements for purchases of tickets to entertainment events," Ziva said abruptly.

"Huh? Why?" he asked, his brain still not up to full speed. She sighed, exasperated.

"If we see what they like to do in their free time, we can buy four tickets and invite them, saying that we have extras. They are more likely to agree if it is something they are interested in."

"Oh, right," he said, finally catching up. "So we can talk to them alone."

"Yes."

"Okay," he replied with a nod, pulling his car up next to her BMW, left there the evening before. "I guess I'll see you this afternoon?"

"Yes," she replied with a nod. She leaned over to give him a quick kiss goodbye before stepping out of the car. DiNozzo found himself thinking about that kiss for the rest of the day; they had only been sleeping together for a few days, but already those kinds of gestures had become normal and routine, like expecting to see her on the other side of the bed when he awoke. He realized at that point for sure that what he was feeling for his partner had nothing to do with the mission.


	31. Chapter 30

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 30**

* * *

"Ouch," Dr. Sam Cohen grimaced as the young hockey player smashed head-first into the clear Plexiglass barrier.

"That'll be at least five thousand," Dr. Ashley Detert commented. Cohen seemed to think about that for a moment before shaking his head slightly.

"I bet I could get seven and a half," he said casually. Detert snorted.

"_You_ could," she commented. "Somehow your patients never notice how overinflated your prices are." He just grinned in response, leaving both of their companions baffles.

"_What_ are you talking about?" Tony DiNozzo—Dinallo—finally asked.

"How high that guy's dental bill is going to be," Cohen replied, nodding toward the ice. DiNozzo nodded his understanding.

"I thought it was a bit strange that a pair of dentists had season tickets to a AA hockey team," he commented.

"Just a chance for us to be jealous about how much our competitors are making," Detert replied with a smile. That Thursday while socializing after the class at the synagogue, DiNozzo had casually dropped that he was looking for some sort of sporting event to go to while Ziva was in the country, to show her that aspect of American life, and Cohen and Detert were quick to reply that they had season tickets to the local hockey team, and the couple they usually went with couldn't go that Sunday—they had a pair of extra tickets, if Dinallo and Kenig wanted to join them. Of course, Tony and Ziva had known this already, due to their check of Cohen's credit card receipts. Well, they hadn't known about the free tickets—that was a surprise bonus that they were sure Vance would appreciate. He had already lectured them sternly about the $370 bottle of champagne and exorbitant grocery bills. When the ref blew his whistle to signal another break in the action, Detert suddenly stood. "Well, I'm going to head to the bathroom before the line gets too long at half-time," she said.

DiNozzo caught his partner's eye and silently gestured for her to go, too. She rolled her eyes at him; she had complained once about the way American women seemed incapable of going to the bathroom on their own, and found the practice of going in groups fairly ridiculous. Still, she stood and said something about going with the other woman.

With the women safely out of earshot, DiNozzo took a swig of beer before casually asking, "I was thinking of getting Ziva something as a 'I'm glad you're here' type of gift. Do you know any good jewelers?"

Cohen laughed slightly and shook his head. "Ashley's not the jewelery type," he explained. "I got her a necklace for the first birthday she had while we were together, and she very politely said it was nice, but I've never seen her wear it." He took a drink of his own beer. "I'm sure there are plenty of good jewelers in the congregation—what good Jewish congregation doesn't have a handful?—but I honestly couldn't tell you who or which to go to."

DiNozzo had to admit that Ziva wasn't exactly the jewelry type either—with the exception of undercover missions, he had only rarely seen her wear anything other than her Star of David necklace and a simple pair of earrings—but he nodded slowly as if acknowledging the comment. "Okay, thanks. I'll ask around." He didn't know what to make of the fact that Cohen and Detert weren't on the list of Steiner's Jeweler's customers. He had already decided that he would stop by the jewelry store at some point as Tony Dinallo, due to his frustration with how the slow legal channels were proceeding. They had yet to find a federal judge who would agree to the court order. They often commented that the case was a bit weak; McGee tried to point out that there was nothing inflammatory about jeweler's records, but Elsa Steiner's lawyer had said something about men not wanting their wives to find out about husbands buying jewelry for their mistresses. DiNozzo had to admit they had a point with that one.

The game ended with a victory for the local team and around twenty to thirty thousand dollars worth of imaginary dental repairs for Cohen and Detert. After a visit to a local bar for a follow-up round, DiNozzo and David bid their farewells and made their way back to Ziva's Georgetown condo.

"Learn anything?" Tony asked as they exited the elevator. Ziva shook her head.

"Detert does not remember Silvers and Quinn very well," she informed him. "She did not seem to realize that Shaw and Sault were any closer to them."

"Hmm," Tony murmured before reiterating his conversation with Cohen. "I don't know how that fits into the picture," he admitted. "I guess it supports the theory that there's something at the jewelery store, as opposed to the synagogue."

"That may be true," Ziva replied. "But I am sure Saul Steiner has had thousands of customers since he opened his store, and not all of them are dead."

"But not all the mixed couples at the synagogue are dead, either," DiNozzo countered. "Whoever it is appears to be picking and choosing his victims, but based on what? The only things they all have in common is that they were dating Jews and either bought or owned jewelry from Steiner."

"That does seem to be a fairly specific cross-section of the population."

DiNozzo sighed. "We need those records from Steiner. If we can find a murder victim who _didn't_ go to the synagogue, we'll know that the jewelery store is where we need to look."

"Or a victim who went to the synagogue but not the jeweler's. Maybe Detert will kick the bucket and that will give us our answer."

"Why is it that you always get the idioms involving people dying right?" DiNozzo asked. "And that was kind of a mean thought."

"I did not say that I would be the one to kill her," Ziva said defensively. "I'm just saying that, if it were to happen, it would help focus our investigation."

"I still think it's bad luck to wish death upon a dentist. You're going to find yourself with cavities next time you get your teeth checked."

"I did not wish her dead," Ziva repeated. "And even if I had, I do not think doing so results in cavities. If it does, I am sure I would have had at least one by now."

"But how many of them were dentists?"

"I do not see how that makes a difference."

"Bad karma, Ziva. It's just bad karma."

* * *

Steiner's Jeweler's was exactly as one would expect a high-end, small jewelry store that mostly advertised by word-of-mouth to be: somewhat off the beaten path, the inside well-lit, a few rows of shiny jewelry under locked glass, nothing cluttering the counters or seeming otherwise out-of-place.

"Good morning," a thin, almost severe-looking woman greeted from behind the counter. Tony DiNozzo guessed her to be Elsa Steiner. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," DiNozzo replied with a wide grin. "I'm looking for something for my girlfriend."

"Ah," Elsa replied. "Anything specific in mind?"

"Not really," he admitted. "Any suggestions?"

"Jewelry can say a lot of things," the woman warned him. He gave an almost nervous chuckle.

"I'm afraid I don't speak jewelry," he joked. She smiled thinly.

"Well, maybe we should start with what kind of girlfriend she is."

He laughed again, remembering Steiner's lawyers comments about mistresses. "Not one on the side, if that's what you're asking. Uh, we've been dating for awhile, long-distance, and now she's in town for a couple of months, if that helps."

Elsa nodded thoughtfully as her eyes slowly traveled the glass display cases. "Maybe a nice necklace?" she suggested.

"No, Ziva already has a necklace that she wears every day. I've never seen her wear another."

"Ziva," Elsa said, her eyebrows raised. "That's a Hebrew name." DiNozzo grinned again.

"Yeah, she's from Israel. Tel Aviv, originally."

"Hmm," the jeweler murmured. "Considering the meaning of the name—Ziva means radiance, or brilliance—maybe a pair of these diamond earrings would be appropriate." She pulled out a long pair of dangling diamond earrings that reminded DiNozzo of the old adage: if you have to ask how much it costs, you can't afford it.

"No, I don't think so," DiNozzo said, again laughing uncomfortably. It didn't take much acting to 'pretend' to be the clueless boyfriend in the jewelry store. "She's usually more understated than that. She's in the military—a major in the IDF—and tends to be minimalistic when it comes to her adornments."

"Maybe what you're looking for is over here." She led DiNozzo to the other side of the store, where he saw rows and rows of diamond rings of various settings. His uncomfortable laughter increased a few decibels.

"Not _that_ kind of girlfriend, either," he joked. "At least, not yet." He tried to calm his suddenly-racing heart by telling himself that he was speaking as Tony Dinallo. "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."

"Well, take your time and look around. I'll be right here if you have any questions."

"Thanks." He gave her a small grin as he continued to study the glass display cases, keeping one eye on the hawkish jeweler. She, in turn, was keeping an eye on him as she appeared to be doing some sort of inventory into a thickly-bound book.

He stopped suddenly when he arrived at a display near the back of the store, realizing that not all was lost. "Do you see something?" Elsa Steiner asked, seeing the change in his demeanor.

"Yeah, I think so," he said, still studying the watches. He had seen Ziva with a few different watches, none of which she seemed to favor any more than the others. He pointed down the display. "Can I see this one?"

"The gold Rolex?"

"Yeah." It was fairly simple, as Rolexes went—only a few hundred dollars—with a gold link chain and dark green face, a small diamond marking the twelve o'clock position and gold tick marks for the other numbers. It was just the kind of thing Ziva would wear. "I'll take it," he declared.

"Very well," Elsa replied, producing a box from somewhere behind the display case. He could see a mixture of disappointment and relief in her eyes: disappointed that he didn't buy something along the lines of those diamond earrings, and relief that he was leaving with something. "Would you like to have it engraved?"

"No, thanks," he replied. He wasn't sure if Vance would let her keep it, but didn't think he'd be able to explain that thought to the jeweler if he said anything about directors of federal agencies. "I don't want her to feel like she has to keep it if she doesn't like it."

"It's a very fine piece. I'm sure she'll love it."

"I hope so," he said with a smile. It _was_ a nice watch.

"And how will you be paying?" He produced his 'Anthony Dinallo' credit card and handed it over. She studied it for a moment before nodding and ringing up the purchase.

"Here you go, Mr. Dinallo," she said a moment later, returning the credit card and handing over the small bag containing the watch.

"Thanks," he replied. "Oh, just out of curiosity—if she does decide to return it, does she need the receipt?"

"No, that won't be necessary," Elsa replied. "We keep very good records of all purchases."

_I bet you do_, he thought to himself. Too bad he couldn't get hold of them. "Well, thanks," he repeated as he headed for the door.

"Oh, Mr. Dinallo?" she called out before he could leave. "We like to see how word of our store gets out. How did you hear about us?"

"Oh," he said, trying to think of something quickly. He doubted that saying 'you came up in the course of a murder investigation' would go over well. Instead, he said, "I remembered one of my buddies saying something. Christopher Shaw."

If she recognized the name, she gave no indication, instead giving him her brightest grin—which looked more like a grimace—and saying, "Well, thank you, Mr. Dinallo." He nodded in return as he left the store, a gold Rolex in hand and more questions than answers in his mind.


	32. Chapter 31

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 31**

_A/N: I would scold you all for the low turnout with reviews yesterday (1? Seriously?!?), but knowing the way FFN has been acting, I know it's not your fault. I just hope you continue to get the opportunity to read these while things are being, well, odd._

_Enjoy._

* * *

After DiNozzo's visit the jewelry store, the case seemed to have reached a stand-still. They still didn't have access to Steiner's records, and it seemed that despite their best efforts, they couldn't find any evidence of anything else the three couples—they had essentially stopped thinking of the Gans case as related—had in common. So for the next couple of weeks, they continued to proceed as they had been, with their twice-weekly visits to the synagogue, meetings with McGee and Abby on Saturday afternoons, and noticeable absence of Ziva at crime scenes and at her desk during the day.

"I can't handle this anymore!" DiNozzo exploded one evening as he and Ziva poured over the evidence cases for what seemed to have been the hundredth time. Ziva, by this time quite accustomed to his sudden outbursts, merely glanced up from what she was reading, an eyebrow cocked. "I'm serious!" he continued. "We're just sitting here, getting nothing accomplished, day after day, night after night."

"I would not say that we are not getting _anything_ accomplished by night, Tony," Ziva joked, her voice low and sultry. As expected, that distracted DiNozzo for a few seconds, but he quickly redirected.

"We need to do _something_," he said stubbornly.

"What do you suggest?" she asked dryly. She had heard these rants before, a few times in the last week or so, and they never failed to annoy her. It wasn't as if she was purposely dragging the mission to keep him around, but sometimes she wondered if he thought that.

"I don't know!" he replied, still wound up. "Break into Steiner's and steal the records or something. I think that's where the information is."

"Yes, Tony, that is a good idea," Ziva said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "We should break into a jewelry store, and when the police arrive, I am sure they will understand when we tell them that we are only after their records." She took a sip from her water bottle. "Besides, you said that Elsa Steiner did not seem to recognize Lt. Shaw's name."

"Maybe she's just a really good actress. It's not that hard."

"If you can not tell when a fifty-year-old jeweler is lying to you, Tony, I think it is time you get another job." Her words had done nothing to mollify him, which meant it was time to switch tactics. Usually, that meant distract him with comments about sex—or, when necessary, with sex itself—but the comments hadn't worked and she was still annoyed with him for tripping her on their run that morning. It had been unintentional, and she knew that, but she was still annoyed, and probably would remain so until the long scrapes along her left leg and arm faded. So, with sex not an option, that meant using the next thing that was on the mind of the average Italian male: food. "Maybe we should go out to dinner."

He seemed to brighten at that idea, and practically jumped up from his position on the couch. "I'll go change," he said quickly, all but running up the stairs to the master suite. Ziva simply rolled her eyes; any woman who ever said she couldn't understand men was clearly overthinking the problem. They weren't that difficult.

There was a trendy new restaurant in Georgetown only a few blocks away from Ziva's condo that they both had mentioned an interest in trying, so they made their way there, making a conscious effort to talk about anything but the case—until they arrived to the large plate-glass window of the restaurant. "So," Tony said as they studied the menu in the window. "Is this a case-date or a date-date?" If Tony DiNozzo started making a habit out of eating at places that expensive, he'd have to stop spending as much money on his clothes as he did.

"We are in Georgetown," Ziva pointed out, "so there is a chance someone from the synagogue might see us. It should be a case-date." He grinned at the explanation until she spoke again. "Of course, there is always a chance someone from NCIS would see us," she said, nodding into the restaurant. Seated at the bar, apparently waiting for a table, was none other than NCIS Special Agent Tim McGee—or maybe famous novelist Thom E. Gemcity—smiling politely at whatever the girl next to him was saying.

"Aww, it looks like our little McGoo is growing up and going on his first date," DiNozzo mocked. He quickly looked away when he saw McGee spot him and do a double take. "I think we've been seen," he said, bending down to whisper in Ziva's ear. "Let's make him uncomfortable."

"What do you have in mind?" she murmured as he slid his hands into her lightweight jacket to rest them on her hips.

"This," he replied, bending down to kiss her properly. She was smiling with a mischievous twinkle in her eye as they parted. "Shall we, Major Kenig?"

"We shall, _Dr._ Dinallo," she replied, lightly brushing her hand along his torso as he held the door open for her.

"McGee," Tony said in mock surprise as they entered the restaurant. "Imagine seeing you here."

"Tony," the junior field agent replied, smiling despite gritted teeth. "And Ziva. Hello."

"Oh, do you guys know Tim?" the blond asked from the next barstool. She was an observant one, they had to give her that.

"We work together," McGee informed her. "I didn't think they would be following me out on my date."

"Don't flatter yourself, _Tim_," DiNozzo replied with a wide grin. "You're in Georgetown. These are our stomping grounds. And actually, only Agent McGee and I work together. Dr. Tony Dinallo," he introduced to the blond.

"Kelli Shauker," she replied, shaking his hand before her eyes darted over to Ziva.

"Ziva Kenig," she said. "I am here with Tony."

"Oh!" Kelli exclaimed, her voice gaining a few decibels. "That's quite the accent. I can't quite place it. Where are you from?"

"Israel," Ziva replied. She glanced over at McGee. "I am sorry. We did not mean to interrupt your date."

"Oh, no, not at all!" Kelli protested, her voice still a bit loud and seemingly a bit slower than usual. "You two should join us! I keep telling Tim that he should introduce me to his friends, but he keeps putting it off."

"We wouldn't want to intrude," DiNozzo replied.

"And I'm sure Tony and Ziva have their own plans," McGee added, his eyes begging for them to agree with him.

"Oh, nonsense," Kelli scoffed. "I'm just suggesting dinner, not that we follow them home. Please, join us."

"Well, if it's no trouble..." DiNozzo said innocently, ignoring the daggers McGee was glaring into him.

"I insist," Kelli replied. She did sound rather insistent. McGee, by now wondering if this date would be salvageable, stood to ask the host to change to change their table from two to four with an air of resignation.

By the time they were sipping wine, nibbling on appetizers, and discussing various dishes on the menu, McGee had to admit that Tony and Ziva—at least, Tony Dinallo and Ziva Kenig—were pleasant dinner companions who—so far—have failed to sabotage his date, the third he had with the accountant he ran into at his coffee shop the month before. He did find himself biting his tongue a few times to comment on some of their background stories that they had invented for their assumed identities, though, such as Ziva's purpose in the United States (_"Oh, you're teaching a course? Your English is very good!" "It should be. I have been speaking it since I was a child. By the time I return to Israel, it might even be better than my French."_), or the flawless way they played off each other when describing how they had met, which McGee had to admit, sounded much better than "I was sent to America to keep Agent Gibbs from killing my brother, whom I thought was a Mossad operative but was actually an international terrorist." Even the way they acted toward each other physically was exactly as one would expect two people who have been dating for years to act, with small gestures that were barely noticeable and never seemed over-the-top.

Still, as McGee watched them with the keen eye of one who might be using his observations in a future novel, he couldn't help but wonder how much of it was an act. Oh, sure, he knew they were good at this sort of thing: Ziva was, after all, a highly trained international spy, and Tony wasn't so bad at his job, either. But McGee had seen them undercover before, and this seemed somehow different. He couldn't get the image of that kiss outside the restaurant out of his head, the way Ziva's body subtly leaned in to Tony's touch, or that smile on Tony's face as they separated—the one that was part amusement and part something else entirely, something McGee's internal thesaurus couldn't quite find a word for. By this point, he no longer doubted Abby's claims that his two partners were sleeping together—the lack of a rumpled blanket on the futon in Ziva's guest bedroom/office pretty much confirmed it—but he wondered if that was all there was to it. This seemed to be beyond just sex.

"The surf and turf sounds pretty good," DiNozzo was saying contemplatively as he studied his menu. "'Filet mignon and Maine lobster tail, both smothered in a creamy shrimp and shallot sauce.'" Ziva rolled her eyes with a chuckle.

"I wonder, Tony, if you have some deep-seeded fear that I will eat your food that always has you choosing the least-kosher meal from the menu," she said with a smile.

"Deep-_seated_," he said, knowing her accent well enough to pick up the way she said the word. McGee hadn't managed to hear the error. "S-E-A-T-E-D, not S-E-E-D-E-D." She frowned.

"That does not make any sense," she argued. "I would think that -"

"It's just an expression, Ziva," DiNozzo interrupted. McGee caught the quick expression that confirmed, in his mind, what he had suspected for the last couple of years, that at least half of Ziva's English errors were intentional because she knew how much Tony liked corrected them. He made a mental note to himself that his next novel should include more such botched idioms from Officer Lisa, in order to properly describe Agent Tommy's amused expression as he corrected her.

By the time the waiter came around for their order, Tony had decided against the surf and turf and ordered the roasted chicken, one of several items on the menu that was marked as 'kosher'. Both McGee and Ziva raised their eyebrows at the choice, but neither vocalized the fact that they had noticed. They continued their light conversations over dinner, during which, somewhere in the middle, Kelli seemed to have realized that Ziva could understand her just fine without speaking slowly or loudly, until they lingered over coffee, debating whether or not to order dessert. Finally, Ziva declared that if she ate any more, she would have to run extra miles in the morning. Tony's quick protests against that didn't escape McGee's notice, which caused him to add another point in favor of this relationship being more than just establishing a cover; getting up at 0500 and running with a trained Mossad assassin wasn't something that one did without wanting to.

They bid their goodnights and went their separate ways, a gold watch band just visible on Ziva's arm as she lightly grasped the hand that Tony had draped over her shoulders. "You have such interesting friends," Kelli commented as they headed for McGee's Porsche.

"You have no idea."


	33. Chapter 32

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 32**

_A/N: Sorry about the last few days. I blame FFN (because it's their fault, after all). To reward you for your patience, I'm giving you a chapter tonight, and (hopefully) one tomorrow morning. I would have posted this as soon as I knew the problem was fixed, but I was driving across Washington state (don't ask)._

* * *

_Ziva David pulled the dark headscarf closer to her face, using it and the long shadows of the alley to conceal her features until she was nothing but a shapeless mass moving down the dark streets, no different than the countless other shapeless masses around her. She kept her head ducked down in a gesture of deference, although her dark eyes continued to study everything around her, memorizing the locations of the cars, mopeds, fellow pedestrians, and possible exits. Nothing was to be left to chance. Failure to observe surroundings lead to a certain death in her new line of work. _

_She dropped her hand slightly to feel the hardness of the blade along her thigh as she ducked into yet another dark alley, outwardly no different than the ones before. Three doors down from the street, she tested the knob to find it unlocked, just as she expected it would. She was the one who had unlocked it the morning before, just as she was the one who had oiled the hinges to ensure that they wouldn't squeak._

_The door opened silently and closed just as silently behind her, not even the click of the door knob giving her away. Immediately ahead was a flight of stairs. She counted as she ascended, stepping over the fifth stair, knowing that the loose board would create a sound to be heard throughout the building. Again over the tenth stair for the same reason. _

_She stopped at the top of the stairs to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness, only a sliver of light from a far dusty window to provide any illumination at all. Once she was satisfied that she was alone, she turned to her right and began down the long hallway. First door: an old spinster lady. Second: three young couples, none able to afford the full rent of even the worst apartments. Third: a single mother with two children, who managed to pay her rent the same way about a third of the women in the building did, in a way none of the men could. Finally, she had reached her destination._

_She paused at the doorway, unsure of her sudden reluctance. This was no different than it had been the last six times. It would be no more difficult, and no easier, and yet she found her hand trembling as she pulled a lock pick from a hidden pocket of her shapeless skirt. The pins fell into place easily, as she knew they would: there was no way a landlord in such a neighborhood would be paying for a lock that would give the new _Metsada_ operative any difficulties. _

_She blinked against the sudden brightness and flash of panic that met her on the other side of the door, drawing her gun despite her reluctance to use it on such a quiet night. This was unexpected. The man should be sleeping, to be caught unaware when she decided to wake him with her knife to his throat before she whispered in his own language why he was about to die. There should be no lights, no shadow of a man sitting by the open window in efforts of catching the briefest of the desert breeze._

_She steeled herself for the gunshot that never came. Nor was there the sharp stab of a knife, or even the startled scream of a man caught unaware. As her eyes adjusted, she lowered her weapon in confusion._

_"Tony?" she asked, aware in the back of her mind that he shouldn't be there in that dilapidated apartment in Palestine, that she shouldn't even know who he was yet. But she did know him, from those mischievous green eyes to his size thirteen feet and everything in between._

_Her partner turned to her, a wide grin on his face and fully assembled—and loaded—Uzi in his hands. "It's an Uzi," he said matter-of-factly. "Just like the one in your apartment. I knew that was an Uzi, by the way. I misidentified it on purpose. Sometimes that makes you smile."_

_"I know," she managed, still surprised by his presence. She caught a shimmer of light on the wall and turned toward it, almost surprised at the face that stared back at her from the mirror. It wasn't that of a raw twenty-two-year-old Mossad operative seeking revenge for a seemingly random crime. It was the face of a woman eleven years older, who had seen too much and done too much in that time. "Why are you here?"_

_"I've come to take you home," he replied, as if that were obvious. "It's over, Ziva."_

_"Tali?"_

_He shook his head. "Nothing you do can ever bring her back."_

_"But the men who did this to her...are they all dead?"_

_"Does it make a difference? Will that make her _less_ dead?"_

_She choked back a sob, knowing he was right but not wanting to believe it. She shook her head slowly. "I should have done more."_

_"You weren't even there."_

_"I should have been!"_

_"You wouldn't have been able to watch over her forever." _

_"I can not let them do this to another girl, another family. I will not!"_

_"They won't," he said gently, his eyes full of understanding, and she knew at that moment that he somehow did understand. She wanted to rush into his arms and let him hold her tight, but he still held that Uzi between them like a shield, his grasp showing no signs of letting go. "Come on, Ziva, let's get you home. I've got a date to get to."_

_She heard the lightness in his voice and smiled despite herself. "Oh?" she asked teasingly. "And where are we going?"_

_He looked confused at the question for a moment, then burst out in laughter. "No, Ziva, a real date. The mission's over, remember? I have my life to get back to."_

* * *

Ziva woke with a start, the sound of Tony's laughter from her dream still ringing in her ears. She took a deep breath to try to calm her nerves as she took a mental inventory of her surroundings. She was in master suite of the Georgetown condo on loan from the Israeli embassy, the green numbers from her bedside clock reading 3:15, only two hours after she and Tony had reluctantly pulled themselves away from the extensive records of Steiner's Jewelers, which had come earlier that day, after almost four weeks of arguments between the lawyers on either side. All four NCIS agents had attacked the records like a man in a desert goes after water, not sure of what they were looking for, but determined to find it.

She turned to her side to see her partner sleeping on his back, one arm draped over his head, his mouth slightly open, his breathing coming out as low snores. Her eyes traveled the distance between them on that kind-sized bed; even on nights where sex had proceeded their slumber—which were still more of the rule than the exception, really—they never slept immediately next to each other, both moving to their own sides of the bed, two independent people who liked their space, even in their togetherness. Usually, she appreciated the distance, the fact that they knew each other well enough to know how they were both comfortable, but in these dark midnight hours, she viewed that empty space as if it were a chasm that separated them, just as the Uzi had in her dream. Although he had never given any indication of feeling that way, she couldn't help but remember the dream and his laughter at the thought that this relationship was anything more than a mission, and she felt a pang of loneliness despite his presence less than eighteen inches away.

"You're staring." She almost jumped at the voice, not having realized her in musings that the light snores had stopped. Her eyes moved to his to see one green eye open and squinting at her.

"I could not sleep," she finally said. "I did not want to wake you."

With an exaggerated breath of air, he pulled himself onto one elbow, closing the distance between them. "There are a few things men don't like to be woken to," he said, his hand traveling up the blanket covering her thigh. "The phone ringing with the boss saying to get into work early, his girlfriend's alarm clock going off at 0500 for a run." She had to smile slightly at that one, especially at the light kiss that followed his words. "But there is something that _no_ man would mind waking up to, and that's a beautiful woman wanting to have sex."

Her smile had turned into a quiet chuckle at that statement, and he smiled in return as he kissed her again, gently pushing her down into the mattress. In the last few weeks, they had had sex together in many different ways—and places—and never did either have any complaints. This time was different from all of those, though, in a way that neither would have been able to explain. The caresses were softer, the kisses deeper, the gazes more intense—the whole experience subtly changed to mean something that neither knew how to vocalize.

Afterwards, Tony held Ziva in his arms, and they both drifted off to sleep before either could pull away.


	34. Chapter 33

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 33**

* * *

The next day was Saturday, and as promised, Gibbs came with McGee and Abby for their post-services meeting, the boxes of photocopied and digital records and McGee's laptop in tow. As they had the day before, they split up the work, Tony and Ziva going over Saul Steiner's handwritten records, leaving the others with Elsa's longer computerized database.

"For such a small place, they sure have done a lot of business," Tony complained after the first few hours, his eyes starting to swim from staring at Saul Steiner's small, neat handwriting.

"Saul moved to DC in 1950," Ziva pointed out, her eyes still focused on the sheet she was studying, "and opened his jewelry store right away. That is almost sixty years of business." Her eyes fell on the gold watch she wore, a smile tugging at her lips. "And he sells high-quality products."

DiNozzo caught her eye and grinned, knowing what she was thinking: that he had done a good job finding something at a jewelry store that she would like. Gibbs caught the exchange without having to look up. "Don't get too attached, David. Vance still hasn't decided if you're keeping it or not."

"I was speaking generally, Gibbs," she replied. "McGee, are you having any luck?"

"None," the junior field agent replied glumly. "I've run each of the names of the buyers through the search parameters that we came up with last night, and the only hits I've gotten are Shaw and Daltron."

"Hey, I have both Shaw and Daltron over here," DiNozzo said, suddenly realizing something that might be significant. "Just like Dr. Silvers said, Saul used to do all of the business—from 1950, when he opened, until 1989, when Elsa came back home to help him out, everything is logged in his records. Then Elsa came on, and all the routine orders disappeared from his book."

"I guess Daddy couldn't be bothered with the simple sales anymore once Daughter moved back home," Abby said.

"Right. So everything in his book after 1989 is custom orders, some of which are pretty impressive—a necklace for a First Lady, the restoration of a Swedish princess' broach, another necklace, this time for a Swiss banker. Ooh, there's a notation by that one—looks like the Swiss banker is buying some pretty hefty jewelry for a mistress."

"The point, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked.

"Right. Sorry, Boss. Most of his custom orders are engagement rings."

"There are quite a few engagement rings over here, too, Tony."

"Well, yeah. Not everyone is going to be spending twenty-eight thousand dollars for a custom ring like Dr. Silvers." He flipped through the pages until he found the one he was looking for and pointed it out. "Or even taking a grandmother's diamond and having it placed in a new setting like Lt. Shaw," he said triumphantly, turning a few pages to point to a recent entry. "Daltron also had Steiner design an engagement ring for him, a two-point-seven carat colorless, flawless round-cut diamond, on a platinum band encrusted with black diamond chips, if I have my diamond short-hand right."

"Wow," Abby commented. "That's like the Rolls-Royce of engagement rings."

"Comes with a Rolls-Royce price-tag, too. That ring set our poor murder victim back almost eighty grand. The solitaire alone was about fifty thousand, and black diamonds, even in chips, aren't cheap."

"What did Daltron do for a living, run a drug cartel?" Abby asked, her eyes wide. "That ring's like, more than my annual paycheck. Speaking of which, Gibbs, I need a raise."

"Do I look like the director of NCIS?"

"No, actually, he's a bit taller than you, and a bit heavier. And he doesn't have as much gray hair. And he's black, but I thought that might be in bad taste to point out."

"So what you're saying," McGee said slowly, ignoring Abby's side comments, "is that someone is taking out the non-Jewish member of mixed couples buying custom engagement rings?"

"Sure seems that way," DiNozzo agreed, handing over the stacks of photocopies gladly.

"Better run all of the custom orders, McGee, just to be safe," Gibbs decided. McGee eyed the pile of papers and sighed.

"Sure, Boss."

* * *

The agents had worked out a system: Ziva figured out what Saul Steiner's shorthand notations meant, allowing them to eliminate men who were buying jewelry for their mistresses. They were going to skip over those who were already married as well, but Gibbs pointed out that since they originally thought the Gans case, in which a married couple was killed, was part of the pattern, they shouldn't be so quick to pass over intermarried couples. Abby, using the laptop from Ziva's office, made a list of names and purchases and who they were for to feed to McGee, running the search on his own laptop, while Tony, Ziva, and Gibbs poured through the records looking for names to give to Abby. It was efficient, but fairly slow-going.

"We need food," DiNozzo finally declared when the rumble of his stomach inspired him to check his watch to find that was nearing 2030.

"I will cook," Ziva said quickly, her mind growing numb from so many hours of sifting through papers.

"No," Gibbs replied shortly. "We need you working on this. We'll order takeout and eat while we work." She sat down again with a dejected look on her face while Tony went to find the Georgetown restaurant guide that he had picked up a few weeks before.

Half an hour of searching the tiny handwriting of Saul Steiner later, the ringing of the doorbell announced the arrival of their dinner. "Finally," DiNozzo muttered as he rose to answer the door. He used his Dinallo credit card to pay for the meal; he was pretty sure he'd be able to justify it to Vance if asked.

"Okay," he said slowly, drawing sandwiches out of the bag to distribute. "Meatball sub. That's mine. Uh, french dip?"

"That would be me," Abby said, holding her hands out to accept her food.

"That's pretty messy for a working dinner, Abs," McGee pointed out. She raised her eyebrows at him.

"Then I guess I'm going to have to take a break from the computer, aren't I?" she replied archly, sitting cross-legged on the floor to use the coffee table as a table. McGee just rolled his eyes and waited for Tony to toss his sandwich at him, which he did a minute later.

"Cheesesteak?" Tony asked, pulling another from the bag.

"That is mine," Ziva replied, holding her hand out. DiNozzo tsked loudly.

"Not exactly kosher, now is it?" he teased. "I guess I'll have to take this away from you."

She narrowed her eyes into a glare. She wasn't in the best of moods to begin with, after spending the morning at the synagogue and the afternoon studying a jeweler's records, on all about four hours of sleep, and she didn't feel like playing games. "Fine," she snapped, reaching for Tony's unopened sandwich. "Then I will have yours."

"That's pork sausage," he informed her. "And it has cheese. You can't eat that, either."

"Then neither can you!" she exclaimed, taking it and reaching for her own dinner, which Tony was holding over her head.

"Neither of you gets either," Gibbs finally intervened, taking both sandwiches from them.

"Boss!" DiNozzo protested, his voice whining. "Then what are we going to eat?"

"You can share mine," he replied, grabbing the last sandwich from the bag. "Vegetable. Enjoy."

"Forget it," Ziva snapped, thrusting the sandwich into Tony's hands, who looked at it as if might contain something hazardous to his health. "I am making myself pancakes."

"Oh!" Tony said, quickly perking up. "Make me some, too." He didn't know what she said back to him in Hebrew, but judging by her tone of voice, it wasn't, "Yes, dear, I'll be glad to."

* * *

Agent Gibbs was somewhat surprised to see Officer Ziva David sitting at her desk when he came into the building on Sunday morning. "What are you doing here?" he asked bluntly.

"Tony said the team is on-call this weekend. I figured you would be coming in."

"The team is on-call, Ziva. You're not. And where's DiNozzo?"

She shrugged. "As far as I know, still asleep." At least, he was close to it when she left the apartment after a round of post-run sex. "I needed to talk to you."

He sighed; he had a feeling where this conversation would be going, and he wasn't sure he wanted to be having it. He glanced up to see Agent McGee enter the bullpen and head for his desk. "My office?" he asked. Ziva gave a perfunctory nod and led the way to the elevator.

As soon as the metal box began its descent, Gibbs reached over and flipped the emergency stop. "Okay, David, let's have it."

"I think Tony is getting too involved in this mission," she said, her voice coming out in a rush. "He is working almost non-stop on this case and hardly sleeping at all. He is beginning to correct my practices—you saw what happened last night with how he reacted to the non-kosher sandwiches—and if I'm not mistaken, he is beginning to pick up—"

Gibbs cut her off before she could give more examples of DiNozzo's actions over the last six weeks, since they first went undercover as Tony Dinallo and Ziva Kenig. "Are you sure it's DiNozzo you're worried about being too involved?" The sudden flush of her cheeks told him that he guessed that one correctly. "Don't think we don't know about you two and your extracurricular activities," he warned.

She frowned slightly when he didn't say anything else. "You are not going to give me a lecture about the rules or slap me on the head?"

"Do you want me to?" he asked sarcastically. "Listen, you two are adults, and you're more than capable of making your own mistakes. We've seen enough of them over the last few years to know that that's true. Just keep it out of the office and don't let it affect your work. If I get the slightest impression that either of you won't be able to perform your duties because of what you do at home, I will end this mission right there and ship your ass back to Israel." Her expressions were never easy to read, and this one was no exception. He sighed as he suddenly figured it out. "It's too late, isn't it? Your judgment is already impaired."

"It is not!" she replied indignantly, her eyes flashing. "I have no problem fulfilling my duties. I have slept with men in the course of missions before without it affecting my work. This is no different."

Although he didn't quite believe her words—at least, the part about it being no different—he didn't call her out on it. Instead, he asked, "And DiNozzo feels the same way?"

He saw that expression again, and suddenly figured it out: uncertainty. He realized then without a doubt that this wasn't just casual sex during an undercover mission anymore, at least not for her. He wondered if it ever had been. "I do not know," she acknowledged, her voice softer than it was. "It is not something we have discussed."

"Maybe that's something you should figure out before it's too late." He didn't explain what he meant by that, knowing that she would be able to figure it out. When a mission got sour was a bad time to discover that too many personal feelings were involved. Jen Shepard had gotten a bullet in her thigh in the Czech Republic to prove that one.

When she didn't say anything else, he reached over and restarted the elevator. Before the doors opened back at the squadroom, he smacked her lightly in the bad of the head, but with a small smile on his face, much like the first time he had given her that particular gesture. "What was that for?" she asked.

"Breaking rule twelve."


	35. Chapter 34

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 34**

* * *

Agent Tony DiNozzo was barely a foot into the bullpen at NCIS when Agent Tim McGee called for his attention. "Tony," he said, "I think I have something."

"Don't worry, Probie, chlamydia is very easily treated," DiNozzo joked.

"What? No!" McGee exclaimed, his eyes wide and darting around to see if anybody heard. His voice lowered several decimals. "With _the case_, Tony."

"Oh," DiNozzo said, as if he hadn't figured that out already. "Well?" he asked when McGee didn't fill him in. "What is it?"

"I've been running the names from Saul Steiner's custom jewelry orders into our search, and I found a couple of hits." He used the remote sitting on his desk to activate the plasma screen. "Jonathan Wallace died in a car accident three and a half years ago, a week after he put in an order with Steiner for an engagement ring, and about two years ago, Manar al-Bashier, an Egyptian grad student at American University died of, quote, natural causes. No autopsy. Her boyfriend, Michael Levanthal, had Steiner place his late mother's diamond in a new setting for an engagement ring. He was listed in the obituary."

"So now it's looking like Wallace, Daltron, al-Bashier, Quinn, then Shaw," DiNozzo said thoughtfully. "So much for my theory of this being fueled by family anger at Lena Rosen's relationship."

"It wasn't much of a theory to begin with," McGee pointed out. DiNozzo ignored him and continued his line of thought.

"All after buying custom-made engagement rings from Steiner's Jewelers."

"I wrote a program to search the engagement ring purchases in Elsa Steiner's records against deaths registered, but nothing came up," McGee added.

"It's exclusively the custom orders."

"Right," McGee said with an enthusiastic nod.

"Well, good job, Probie. You've earned yourself a probie-snack," DiNozzo joked, reaching into his desk to pull out a candy bar he had swiped from the vending machine. McGee, unprepared to catch, allowed the chocolate to hit him in the forehead, making DiNozzo chuckle as he reached for the phone. "Any connection between Wallace and al-Bashier and the synagogue?" he asked as he dialed.

"Uh, I don't know," McGee replied reluctantly. "I've just been running the names from Steiner's records. I figured you could find out."

"Do I have to do everything around here?" DiNozzo complained. "Don't make me take away that probie-snack." McGee's hand closed around the confiscated candy bar protectively.

* * *

"Michelle Geld grew up here in DC and has been a member of the congregation in Georgetown her entire life," DiNozzo explained a few hours later as McGee, Gibbs, and Ziva listened closely. "She left to attend Columbia University when she was eighteen and majored in classical studies. She came back to DC four years later to teach Latin and Greek at one of the fine private schools here in the District. She also brought back a boyfriend, Jonathan Wallace, who was beginning medical school at the Uniformed Services University of Health Sciences. He was killed in a car crash halfway through his second year. That was three and a half years ago."

"Which service?" Gibbs asked. USUHS was the military's medical school, and had students in the Navy, Army, Air Force, and Public Health Commissioned Corps.

"Public Health," DiNozzo replied with a nod. "So his death falls under civilian jurisdiction, but we could probably take over the investigation without too many complaints. He died in Maryland, and the Ann Arudel cops concluded that it was a sudden failure of the power steering system. He ran off the road when his car couldn't turn. No passengers, no other cars."

"And the other one?"

"Manar al-Bashier," DiNozzo continued. "Egyptian graduate student earning her degree in international law at American University. This is where things get a little hinky, to borrow Abby's favorite word. She was going to be losing her student visa as soon as she graduated, which would have been a few months after she died. I don't know if their relationship was legitimate or not, but it almost looks like her and Michael Levanthal were looking for a way to keep her in the country. I spoke to a few of their former classmates, and only one of them knew that al-Bashier and Levanthal were seeing each other, but she didn't think it was very serious. He was described as, quote, your typical good little Jewish boy. Everyone knew that he couldn't be reached from sunset on Friday to sunset on Saturday because he was observing Shabbat."

"And al-Bashier is a Muslim name," Ziva pointed out.

"Exactly. Not exactly a union to make either family all that happy."

"Anything from before Wallace?" Gibbs asked.

Both DiNozzo and McGee shook their heads, but it was McGee who spoke. "Nothing, Boss. I checked through Steiner's custom engagement ring orders for the last ten years. Wallace was the first to be listed in the death records."

"That does not make any sense," Ziva said with a frown. "If Steiner is the one orchestrating the deaths, we would have expected them to begin in 1950, when he first opened his store."

They all thought about that for a moment. "What if Steiner is saying something to someone?" McGee mused aloud. "Someone who's only been here for a few years?"

"That's good thinking, McGee," Gibbs said after he had the chance to think about that for a minute. He turned to his two other agents, his expression strangely amused. "Congratulations, Ziva."

"Gibbs?" she asked, confused.

"You're about to be engaged."

* * *

Tony DiNozzo's hand clenched tightly on the gear shift of his Mustang as he shifted the car into fifth gear more harshly than he should have. He didn't even bother apologizing to the car, something he usually would have done. He was annoyed. Annoyed at Gibbs, at himself, at the mission—hell, he was pretty much annoyed at the world.

Everything had been going well until two days ago, when Gibbs had made his joke about Ziva being about to be engaged. Since then, she had barely looked at him and had made up excuses not to come by the office after her last lecture. He had slept alone in his apartment for the last two nights, the longest stretch in the last six weeks, and discovered that he didn't like it.

He downshifted just as angrily as before as he tried to sift things out in his mind. What was she so worked up about? The whole damn mission had been her idea in the first place. How was she okay with a fake relationship, but bothered by a fake engagement?

He had to admit, the idea of shopping for an engagement ring left him feeling a little funny, too, and the idea that said engagement ring was for a woman he had joked with and flirted with, protected and been protected by, slept with and practically lived with, a woman he respected and cared for and honestly liked—well, maybe that was hitting just a little too close to him, and maybe it was a little bit too personal for her, too. Or maybe she just found the idea of being engaged to Tony DiNozzo so repulsive she couldn't stand the sight of him. He managed a slight smile at that one. Neither of them was really the marrying kind, when you got down to it.

The plan was simple. DiNozzo—or, rather, Dinallo—would go into Steiner's Jewelry with plans to design an engagement ring. McGee had got a warrant granting permission to tap Steiner's work and home phones, as well as Elsa Steiner's cell phone (Saul didn't have one), and their computers both at home in the office, and they would see whom, if anyone, Steiner contacted after Dinallo left.

DiNozzo had his doubts about there being an immediate phone call or email as soon as he left the building. Somehow, he didn't see an old Jewish jeweler knowingly set up his clients to be murdered-especially before their orders were completed and paid for. He was pretty sure that, had Steiner said anything to anyone at all, it was in the form of an innocent comment, without any expectations that the person he was confiding in would become homicidal at the news. Still thinking that the synagogue somehow played a roll in things, they would arrange another agent to tail Steiner that coming Saturday and report back on everyone the man spoke to.

He took a deep breath to calm his nerves as he pulled into the parking garage a block away from Steiner's Jewelers in Georgetown, and another before getting out of the car. By the time he walked through the doors of the jewelry store, he was wearing the same uncertain smile he had the last time he visited, when he had left with the gold Rolex watch. "Ah, Mr. Dinallo," Elsa Steiner greeted him with her wide smile/grimace. "Welcome back. What can we do for you today?"

He swallowed and glanced around the store before his eyes returned to severe-looking woman. He put a slightly uneven smile on his face, and wondered if he was looking as green as he felt. "I think it's time for me to be checking out the rings."


	36. Chapter 35

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 35**

* * *

Elsa Steiner blinked once, almost in surprise, at the words of the man she knew as Anthony Dinallo, remembering his reaction to her suggesting that they look at the rings last time he was there. Still, she was there to sell jewelry, so she put such thoughts aside and gave him a wide grin. "Congratulations!" she said, as brightly as she could manage.

He chuckled uneasily. "Well, I wouldn't say congratulations are in order yet. I haven't exactly asked anything."

"Well, in my experience, very few men who ask get turned down."

"How do you figure?"

She gave a shrug. "We don't get many returns on engagement rings," she said simply. Her words were met with a smile and uneasy chuckle.

"Yeah, I guess that would be a good indication."

"The diamond rings are over here," she said, guiding him toward a large section near the back of the store, a fact he remembered distinctly from the last time he was there, just because of the visceral reaction that they had caused.

This part was planned out: DiNozzo would study the rings, ask to see a number of them, before deciding that none were really what he was looking for. He had fairly specific ideas in mind, he would say, and these weren't really it; maybe he'd have more luck elsewhere? Hopefully, Elsa would be as good of a salesperson as her records seemed to indicate, at which point she would mention that her father makes custom-designed rings. Then, with any luck, it would be time to meet Saul Steiner, and things would go from there.

"Our platinum solitaires are the most popular these days," Elsa began as DiNozzo stared down into the rows of rings, feeling as lost as he was pretending to be. He shook his head slowly.

"I don't think so," he said. "I've only ever seen Ziva wearing gold jewelry."

"Yellow gold or white gold?"

He blinked at the question, giving her what must be the familiar expression of a man who thought 'gold' meant 'yellow gold'. "Yellow," he finally said. She nodded slightly.

"We don't sell as many of these as we used to," she said, pulling a display of yellow gold solitaires from the display case and setting them on the counter. "Have you given much thought to size?"

"Oh," he said. "I really don't know what her ring size would be."

Elsa smiled politely. "I meant the size of the diamond."

"Oh!" he replied before giving her an embarrassed smile. "Nothing too big." His eyes widened slightly with the realization of how that sounded. "Not that she doesn't deserve something bigger, or I can't afford it—"

"It's more about what the woman would want to wear than what the man can afford," Elsa interrupted. DiNozzo grinned.

"Exactly."

"Well, we have these two here," she said, pointing out two rings. "This one is three-quarters of a carat, and this one is a tiny bit over one carat."

He pretended to study both for several minutes before shaking his head. "They're both nice," he said finally, "but not really what I was thinking. With any luck, she'll have this for the rest of her life. I want it to be just right. Maybe somewhere else—"

"Actually, Mr. Dinallo, my father opened this store as a custom jewelry store almost sixty years ago," Elsa interrupted. "He still does custom orders. You can pick out your stone and the setting yourself. That way, you can be sure to get exactly what you're looking for."

"Really?" DiNozzo asked, brightening. "That sounds perfect."

Elsa gave him another smile/grimace. "I believe my father is back in his workshop right now. If you don't mind waiting here for a moment, I'll ask if it's okay if I send you right back." She returned the pillow of rings to the glass display counter and locked it before walking through a well-concealed door in the back of the store.

She returned a minute later with what he supposed was an encouraging smile. "He said that now is a good time," she informed him. "Come around this way and I'll led you back."

Saul Steiner was wearing almost comically-thick jeweler's glasses as he was sitting at a workbench, a small tray of loose diamonds in front of him. He didn't rise to greet DiNozzo, but wasn't being rude; the wheelchair he sat in was a pretty good indication that he couldn't.

Still, the octogenarian offered a withered yet steady hand to the younger man, who shook it confidently. "Welcome to my workshop, Mr. Dinallo," Steiner rasped. "Please, have a seat. Let's talk." As DiNozzo sat, he removed his jeweler's glasses and replaced them with a pair of bifocals that seemed almost as thick. "So I understand you're in the market for an engagement ring."

"That's right," DiNozzo replied with a nod. "And I understand you're the one to help me."

Steiner guffawed a few times at that. "I like to think so," he replied. "Have you given this much thought?"

"The ring, or getting married?" DiNozzo joked, earning him another round of laughter that left the old man slightly breathless.

"Ah, I hope your future wife appreciates a good sense of humor," he managed after he caught his breath.

"She tolerates it. I think that's as much as I can ask for."

Steiner smiled, his eyes appearing far away. "My wife, Tali, rest her soul, I think was the same way. She used to tell me that she wished she married someone half as funny as I thought I was."

"Tali?" DiNozzo asked, surprised.

"Well, that is what I called her. It's short for Talitha. A good Hebrew name." He frowned slightly. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"No, not at all," DiNozzo said quickly. "It's just, my girlfriend, Ziva, she had a sister named Tali. I've never heard it anywhere else, that's all."

"Ah," Steiner replied. He studied the younger man for a few seconds. "You said she _had_ a sister?"

"She died when she was sixteen. Hamas suicide bomber." He paused, then added, probably unnecessarily, "Ziva's from Israel."

Steiner tsked lightly as he shook his head. "My brother Ephraim, he tried to convince me to join him in Israel—of course, it was still Palestine then—after we left Germany, but I told him my place was in America, and two hours after I stepped off the boat, with only the shirt on my back and the name of a dead jeweler I apprenticed with as a reference, I walked into a jewelry store looking for a job and was greeted by the owner's daughter. Three months later, we were married." He smiled at the memory and leaned back in his wheelchair.

"Tali," DiNozzo said with a smile. Steiner nodded.

"She was also the one who told me that her father's business was failing, and instead of working for him, I should open my own store. Well, I did that, and sure enough, my father-in-law's store went out of business." He leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. "I offered him a job, but the poor _schmuck_ had too much pride to ever consider working for me." He guffawed again before waving a hand dismissively. "But enough about that. You did not come here to hear an old man's stories about a time before you were born. You came about a ring. Let us get started." He slid the tray of loose diamonds he had been studying over to DiNozzo. "These just came last week from Belgium. They have been independently marked and appraised. If I were in the business of selling rouge diamonds, I would have retired to Palm Springs with a woman half my age years ago." He chuckled at his own joke. "Now, if your lady is from Israel, she knows diamonds, so I am only going to show you the very best that we have. If you do not find anything to your liking here, I have a few others I can show you."

DiNozzo stared down into the tray, looking as lost as he felt. "I don't know what I'm looking for," he admitted. Steiner chuckled again.

"Most people don't," he said conspiratorially. "Let's start with size. Despite what the ladies claim, size really does matter." He gave DiNozzo a large wink before using his tweezers to pluck one from the tray. "This is two carats."

"That's a bit large," DiNozzo said, shaking his head. "Ziva doesn't wear anything big and flashy. She's an officer in the IDF, so I want to get her something she could wear even when she's in uniform."

"Ah, okay," Steiner replied, replacing the diamond before glancing up sharply at DiNozzo, pointing at him with the tweezers. "I believe I have seen your Ziva. At the synagogue a few blocks away from here, no? Pretty young thing, dark curly hair?"

"That would be her," DiNozzo confirmed with a grin.

"You are a lucky one, then, Mr. Dinallo. When I saw her a few weeks ago, I turned to my friend Bertie and asked who that gorgeous _krasavitse_ was, and he told me I'd have to be fifty years younger to handle a woman like that." He chuckled before grabbing another gem with his tweezers. "This one, I believe, is one point one carats. This is more of what you are looking for, no?"

"That seems about right," DiNozzo nodded, studying the diamond at the end of Steiner's tweezers and trying to picture it in a ring. When he did that, he found himself picturing it on Ziva's hand, and had to struggled to suppress the urge to shake his head free of the image.

"That is what I figured," Steiner agreed, still examining it. "Now, are you familiar with the grading of color and flaws of a diamond?"

"Slightly," DiNozzo replied. Ziva had given him a lesson in it as they were studying Steiner's records. The old man nodded.

"This one is a G. It isn't quite colorless. It has a bit of a yellowish glint to it, which you have to be in the right light to see."

"I think I want something completely colorless," DiNozzo replied. To his surprise, Steiner shook his head slightly.

"As much as I want to help you take the most expensive stone out of my store, I am going to spare your wallet for a minute to talk about settings. Now, if you want yellow gold, even the most colorless diamond is going to reflect the color from the setting and give it a slight yellowish tint. You can save yourself a few thousand dollars if you go with a G or maybe even as high as an I." He wagged a finger at DiNozzo and shook his head slightly. "Heaven help me, I must be getting soft in my old age, but I like you, young man, and you made me laugh, which is why I am helping you out here."

"And I appreciate it," DiNozzo joked. "As does my wallet." _And my director_. "Yes, I was thinking about a yellow gold setting."

"That is what I assumed, having seen your lovely lady. Not many women these days seem to like yellow gold engagement rings—everyone wants the white gold or the platinum, but your Ziva looked like a very classy type of woman, the kind of woman who wears real gold jewelry. So, are you going to be getting married in Israel?"

DiNozzo blinked at the non-sequitur before shaking his head slightly. "We haven't talked about it. Well, to be perfectly honest, we haven't talked about anything vaguely resembling marriage yet."

"Ah," Steiner said with understanding. "So you are preparing for the inevitable."

DiNozzo flinched slightly at the word 'inevitable', but Steiner didn't seem to notice. "Something like that," he said with a chuckle. "I think I need to figure out if I'm going to convert before we can make decisions about where we would be married."

"Ah, you are not Jewish then?" Steiner asked with sudden interest. DiNozzo shook his head.

"I'm not much of anything," he admitted, which was true. He vaguely remembered his mother saying something about baptizing him when he was a baby, but with the exception of a few Christmas Eve and Easter masses, he didn't have much of a connection with the Catholic church. "Ziva and I are involved in an adult education class that the Grossmans teach."

"Ah, yes," Steiner said, a trace of sadness in his voice. "My great-niece, Lena—Tali's brother's granddaughter—she was rather seriously dating a Gentile a couple of years ago. They were involved in that class. He was trying to convert so they could get married." He shook his head sadly. "I was going to design her engagement ring, too. It was to be an exquisite piece, one of my best, but Scott—Lena's boyfriend—died of poisoning of all things before it was complete." He clucked his tongue and shook his head again. "Such a shame, such a shame. But that's not important now," he said, brightening again. "Back to your ring for your beautiful lady."


	37. Chapter 36

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 36**

_A/N: Okay, you guys have been bugging me about this chapter for a couple of days now, so I'm giving it to you... kinda :)_

* * *

The sound of the piano stopped abruptly at the ringing of the doorbell of the Georgetown condo, much to Tony DiNozzo's regret. He had been standing in the hallway for almost five minutes listening to the music and wondering what he was going to say when the door opened.

Ziva had already turned and headed back toward the living room when the door finished swinging open. "Hello to you, too," DiNozzo said jokingly.

"I have had a long day, Tony. If this is not related to the case, I am not interested in hearing about it right now."

He paused for a moment before sliding the long thin box he was carrying onto the kitchen counter. "I brought pizza," he finally offered. "I would have gotten flowers, but then I realized I didn't know what I would be apologizing for, so I figured this would be a better approach. Tastier, too. Besides, after spending literally the entire afternoon at a jewelry store, I didn't have the energy to handle the florist as well."

Ziva sighed as she turned back to face her partner. "I am sorry, Tony. I have been rather bitchy the last few days." She opened the pizza box and was faced with a cheese pizza. Entirely cheese, no pepperoni. She glanced up at Tony, an expression of confusion on her face. "You are not eating?"

"Why, are you so hungry you're eating that whole thing by yourself?"

"No, it is just..." She tilted the pizza toward him. "You do not like cheese pizza."

He shrugged. "I figured after giving you a hard time on Saturday that maybe I should make more of an effort to eat something kosher."

"You do not have to do that," she replied, but he caught the ghost of a smile behind her words. She was halfway through her first slice of pizza before she spoke again. "You went to see Saul Steiner, then?"

"Yeah," he replied after swallowing another mouthful of the bland pizza. If ever he forgot why he liked pepperoni, he could use that moment as a reminder. "Be careful around him. He may be old, but he's feisty. And I think he has a thing for girls with dark curly hair." He took another bite of his pizza. "Actually, judging by half of the things he was saying, he has a thing for girls period."

"Ah, so you have something in common."

He grinned. "Only if you're referring to the dark curly hair comment."

She rolled her eyes and looked away. "Idiot," she muttered, but he could see her smile. "Did you learn anything other than his preference for female company?"

"He gave me a rather long lecture about diamond grading."

Another eye roll. "About the case, Tony."

"He seemed interested when I brought up the fact that I wasn't Jewish, but not overtly disapproving. In fact, after I mentioned the Grossman's class at the synagogue, he brought up Lena Rosen and Scott Daltron, and seemed pretty sad about that. Of course, he could have just been sad about not being able to complete the ring he and Daltron designed. He talked about that in great length."

"Hmm," Ziva said, her mouthful full of pizza. She swallowed and continued, "You may have been right when you said that Steiner's comments, if he makes any comments at all, were not done maliciously. Maybe he is just a gossipy old man."

"He's definitely a gossipy old man. I can tell you stories about half of the pillars of the Jewish community of DC."

She smiled thinly. "Any luck with the phones or email?"

"McGee hasn't contacted me with anything, so I don't think so. If he's going to talk, it'll be Saturday at the synagogue after services. Whoever we get to tail him is going to have to stay close enough to hear what he says."

"Will that be McGee?"

He shook his head. "The daughter knows McGee from the court order, remember? What about Gibbs? Think you can get him in a _kippah_ for a few hours of reconnaissance?" They both smiled at the mental image.

They switched to small talk for the duration of the dinner. Despite Tony's claims to not like cheese pizza, he ate seven slices to Ziva's three. It looked like he'd be getting up for the morning run the next day, regardless of where he was sleeping.

The thoughts of the sleeping arrangement caused the smile to drop from his face as he thought about sleeping alone the last few nights. "Are we going to talk about what's been bothering you for the last couple of days?" he asked. No use beating around the bush.

Her smile also fell instantly from her face. "It is not important," she said stiffly.

"Your lips say no, but your eyes won't shut up," he said, paraphrasing one of his first comments to her after their reunion from the summer apart. She shook her head, but he had already seen what he was looking for. Everyone else seemed to think that Ziva was the unfeeling, uncaring Mossad automaton that she often wanted them to think she was. Sometimes, Tony felt like he was the only person to see the real Ziva David, the one who regretted that she had grown up so fast, who mourned two dead siblings, who let her guard down when she played the piano or hummed while she cooked. There was a vulnerability there, an uncertainty, and sometimes, he wondered if she was able to see that in herself.

And as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. "No, Tony, I do not want to talk about it."

"Well, I do," he replied. He knew bullying a trained assassin with four—five? he wasn't sure if she had rearranged the weaponry in the last couple of days—loaded guns seconds away wasn't the brightest idea, but he was fairly certain she wouldn't hurt him. At least, that's what he was hoping. "You've been avoiding me since Gibbs assigned me to check out engagement rings," he pointed out before putting on a falsely chipper smile. "It's just for the mission, Ziva. You don't really have to marry me."

"You are relieved by that, no?" she asked bitingly, and his smile dropped.

"What are you saying, Ziva? _Marriage_? We both know that we'd both need years of intensive therapy to bring either of us to that point," he said, trying to make a joke of it. When that fell through, he changed tactics. "What do you think this is for me, just another mission? I wouldn't be here eating cheese pizza and trying to remember if I have clean running socks in your apartment if that were true."

"So why are you here?"

"Because I want to be here," he said emphatically. She shook her head slightly, but he wasn't sure if it was in denial of his statement or for some other reason. She rose from the barstool she had been sitting on and began pacing the area between the kitchen and dining room.

"I had not been in Mossad long when Tali was killed," she finally said. "I was still in my training period, but I came home anyway. We were supposed to be mourning, but my father and I still completed my training exercises while I was home, when my mother was not around to see what we were doing. After my month of mourning was complete, I left and began to seek vengeance."

"An eye for an eye," he commented. She shook her head.

"I did not go after their teenagers, as they went after ours," she said bitterly. "I spent a year infiltrating Hamas and removing those with direct links to Tali's murder. I would have continued, to strike their very center, but my father pulled me out. He said I was done, that it was over, that I had killed those who killed my sister, and to stay in longer would only lead to my own death. He said I was no longer objective and it was time to go home." Her father's words, spoken to her a decade ago, seemed to echo with the words spoken by Tony in her dream much more recently.

"I was not supposed to be _Metsada_," she continued, her eyes focused on a memory far away. "When I was recruited for Mossad, it was to be in Intelligence, as my father had been, but an instructor took an interest in my talents and transferred me to Operations. Had he not done that, I never would have gone after Hamas after Tali's death."

"You wouldn't be the person you are now."

"No, I would not," she agreed. "But I sometimes wonder if I would have been a better person than I am now."

"There's nothing wrong with you, Ziva."

She smiled thinly to acknowledge the comment before continuing. "When I had left home after Tali's death, my parents were still in mourning. A sibling is expected to mourn for a month; a parent, for a year. When my father had called me home after my year with Hamas, I discovered that my mother had left Israel and returned to Russia, where she was born and still had family. She claimed otherwise, but I knew that Tali had always been her favorite—her 'little Natalia' was what she always called her—and after Tali's death, she found that she could not bring herself to stay. Of our family, Tali was the best of us, and when she was gone, there was nothing left. My mother needed someone to blame for that, and as she could not put a face to the man that killed Tali, she began to blame my father. She blamed him for not doing enough to prevent that attack, she blamed him for almost three decades of putting his career before his family." She took a deep breath and added, "She blamed him for taking her one remaining child and making me like him. She left because she could no longer deal with being married to a Mossad officer and could not face the fact that she helped to raise another." She didn't add what she was thinking, that in the ten years since her parents divorced and her mother moved to Russia, that she had only seen her twice, and once was during an anti-terrorism operation in Eastern Europe. She had taken a week-long break from the mission without a word as to her destination to Jen Shepard and caught the first train to Moscow. After only two days, the guilt that they both felt about the past was almost too oppressive for either to handle. "At first, I was angry with her for leaving, but gradually, I began to understand why she did it. It is not easy to live with a Mossad officer."

And Tony knew that that was what this was about. He rose from the barstool where he had been silently listening and stopped his partner in her pacing, wrapping his arms around her tightly. She didn't return the gesture, but neither did she pull away. They continued to stand there for an unknown length of time. "If you're trying to scare me away, you're going to have to do better than that," he finally said, his words somewhere between joking and serious, "because I'm not going anywhere."


	38. Chapter 37

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 37**

* * *

The silver-haired man kept his target in his sights without being obvious about it, remaining far enough from the elderly man in the wheelchair to appear uninterested, but close enough to hear every raspy word the octogenarian spoke, which wasn't always easy. Judging by the crowds that surrounded him, the aging jeweler was quite the social butterfly of the congregation.

"Ah, Mr. Dinallo," Saul Steiner spoke as he approached a younger couple standing near the back of the social hall of the synagogue. The man identified as Dinallo stopped his conversation in mid-sentence to glance down at the old man, his eyes sweeping past the observer as he did so. There was no hint of recognition in his expression before it slowly turned to a grin.

"Mr. Steiner," Dinallo greeted. "How are you this morning?"

"Fine, fine," Steiner said, waving off the question as his attention shifted to the attractive young woman standing by Dinallo. There was a change in the smile that crossed the jeweler's face. "And this must be the wonderful Ziva," he said, reaching for one of the woman's hands and kissing it gently, earning him a small laugh in response. "She is even more beautiful than you described, Mr. Dinallo."

The man observing heard Dinallo chuckle at the statement. "Ziva, this is Mr. Saul Steiner, the jeweler I was telling you about," he introduced. She had a slightly puzzled look on her face, so her boyfriend prompted, "Where I got your watch."

"Ah," she said, glancing down at the gold band on her wrist before smiling over at Steiner. "I should thank you. It is a beautiful piece."

"Oh, Mr. Dinallo here picked that one out on his own," Steiner informed her. She smiled again and shook her head slightly.

"You are trying to give him too much credit," she scolded lightly. "Tony does not know anything about picking out jewelry."

"Maybe not, Ms. Ziva, but he does know his lady and knows what she would like," Steiner replied. The silent observer was in just a position where he could see the large wink Steiner sent to Dinallo, who just smiled at him before turning that grin over to Ziva and kissing her lightly on the temple. It didn't take a trained investigator to know what that look between boyfriend and girlfriend meant.

Steiner continued to exchange pleasantries with Dinallo and the foreign woman, Ziva, before wheeling off. The man made his way to follow, but was blocked by a somewhat familiar-looking man in a well-tailored suit. "Hello," the man said. Judging by the large cheesy smile, the man was sure he was either a lawyer or a politician. "I don't believe we've met. Senator Barry Lowe, Ohio."

_Politician, then_. Not that it made much of a difference; he didn't have much use for either set. "Gunnery Sergeant Jethro Gimmel, US Marine Corps," the man replied, the assumed identity sliding right off his tongue. "I'm in town for a week of meetings at the Pentagon before heading back to Camp Pendleton on Tuesday, so no, we haven't met."

"Marine, eh?" Lowe asked with sudden interest while the man continued to watch Steiner in his peripheral vision. He couldn't make out everything he was saying, but the jeweler had the group of senior citizens he was talking to almost rolling with laughter. "Maybe we should go off and find some place to chat. I've been working on getting on the Defense committee in the Senate, and—"

The man cut him off with a hand raised defensively. "I'm sorry, Senator, but I make it a point not to work on Saturdays, and that includes not talking about work."

"Of course," Lowe replied smoothly. From the corner of his eye, the man saw Elsa Steiner begin to make her way toward her father, likely to collect him to get him home. He knew he had to shake the senator quickly, but the politician seemed to have other plans. "Listen, I don't know if you've had much time to see the sights while you've been here, seeing as you've been wrapped up at the Pentagon—"

"Actually, I've seen them," the man interrupted again. "I was stationed out here a couple of years ago. Uh, if you'll excuse me, Senator..." He let his voice trail off as he nodded toward the restrooms.

"Ah, right," the senator said, nodding his understanding. Before stepping aside to allow the "Marine" to pass, he expertly whipped a business card from a location the man couldn't identify. "Well, it was good talking to you, uh, Sergeant, and I just want to thank you for your service to our country. If you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to give my office a call or drop us an email. We members of the tribe need to stick together, right?"

"Right," he agreed with a nod, making a mental note to ask someone what he was talking about. "It was nice to meet you, sir." After one last handshake, Lowe finally moved aside, allowing his new acquaintance to pass. He headed in the general of the restrooms, making a wide arc through the social hall as if trying to avoid the larger crowds of people. "Excuse me," he murmured to Elsa Steiner, making his way in front of her as she dutifully followed her father's motorized wheelchair. The man didn't even change his stride as he dropped the small item he was carrying into the pouch at the back of Saul Steiner's chair. His mission complete, he made one final stop by the restrooms before leaving as unobtrusively as he arrived.

* * *

By the time Agent McGee arrived at Ziva Kenig's condo with Abby Sciuto in tow, Gibbs and DiNozzo were already seated at the kitchen counter sipping coffee while Ziva was standing a few feet away preparing lunch. "Any luck?" he asked eagerly, excited about the idea of having this mission over with once and for all.

"Yeah, McGullible, we're at NCIS booking our serial killer now," DiNozzo replied sarcastically. McGee could feel his face fall. "We've got nothing, unless you consider me and Ziva, the rabbi and his wife, and a group of men who keep their teeth in jars at night to be suspects, because that's everyone who Steiner talked to for longer than three seconds."

"The issue of custom jewelry or engagement rings didn't come up once," Gibbs added. "I did drop that recording do-dad you gave me into his wheelchair bag."

"Actually, Boss, it's a microphone and transmitter package. It doesn't store any data, so it's not really a recorder. How it works is that when it's noise activated—"

"McGee."

"Right, sorry, Boss. Not important. So, the transmitter pack has about a hundred hours of battery life, and it's only turned on when there's noise around. Assuming Steiner doesn't talk to himself in his sleep or when he's alone in his workshop, it should last a week and a half to two weeks. The microphone is strong enough to catch anything in five feet, so if he says anything about Tony's ring order in that time, we'll catch it."

"Assuming he doesn't talk to himself in his sleep or when he's alone in his workshop," DiNozzo muttered.

"And assuming that the transmitter works and the microphone is strong enough and this is his only wheelchair and he doesn't find the transmitter and—"

"Abby," McGee interrupted with a frown. "We're thinking happy thoughts."

"Oh, right. In that case, I'm sure we'll get him, Tony." She patted DiNozzo's hand reassuringly.

"Thanks, Abs," the senior field agent said dryly. "In the meantime, I need to keep my eyes open for a crazed gun-wielding madman who is trying to save the Jewish culture one high-class couple at a time."

"He might not be gun-wielding, Tony," Ziva said calmly from her position a few feet away. "He could use poison or tamper with your car or another method not before used."

"You're not really helping, sweetcheeks."

"I am just saying, there are many ways to kill a person."

"And if anybody would know, it would be you."

"What've you got from the phones and email, McGee?" Gibbs asked loudly, interrupting DiNozzo and David's side dialogue.

"Uh, not much, Boss. The only calls to or from the office phone are work related—a few calls in about their hours, whether or not customers need to make appointments, that sort of thing. A couple about whether or not their alterations or repairs are ready yet. All of the calls out were informing customers that they could pick up their jewelry at their easiest convenience, except one, about an order of loose sapphires Saul was following up on. Not much from the home phone, either. A few telemarketers called, always around dinner time, and apparently, Steiner likes to watch QVC and call in around 0400. Never to order anything; he just seems to want someone to talk to. Elsa hasn't used her cell phone at all since we've been tracing it. As far as email and the internet, someone, I'm assuming Elsa, regularly checks an on-line dating site for single, widowed, and divorced middle-aged Jews. Most of their emails are emails are business related, although Saul also regularly emails his son, an accountant in California; and his granddaughter, a freshman at UCLA."

"I'm assuming we aren't adding desperate middle-aged men or people living three thousand miles away to our suspect list," DiNozzo commented. Gibbs finally reached over and gave him the smack that had been building all morning. "Ouch! Thanks, Boss. I think I needed that."

"Keep on it, McGee," Gibbs ordered, ignoring DiNozzo's last comment. "And in the meantime, DiNozzo, keep your eyes open for crazed gun-wielding madmen."


	39. Chapter 38

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 38**

_A/N: And here we go... Just to warn you, the timeline's a bit screwy for the next few chapters (which are, incidently, the last few chapters...) I hope it makes as much sense to you as it did in my head._

* * *

Agent Tony DiNozzo reached for the handle of the hospital room before slowly withdrawing his hand. "Maybe I should let you go first, Probie," he said, moving aside to allow the junior agent access.

"Oh, for God's sake, Tony, they're not going to be coming after you at a crime scene. Especially one in the middle of the hospital," McGee said, annoyed. It had been funny at first, DiNozzo's sudden skittishness about everything he did. He began depending on Ziva or, in rare occasions, McGee, to give him rides to and from work, in case someone had tampered with his Mustang. Worried about cyanide poisoning, he had McGee tasting all of the food he had delivered to NCIS before he would take a bite, until McGee realized, later than he should have, that if it were poisoned, he'd be ingesting it as well. Since then, Tony would only eat food that he had brought in from home—leftovers from Ziva's cooking the night before, from the looks of it—which he stored locked in Abby's evidence refrigerator until it was time to be eaten. Now that they were working a major case again, almost a week after their failed surveillance of Steiner in the synagogue, it appeared that his hesitation had expanded into crime scenes. It seemed a far cry from the man who, while still recovering from the pneumonic plague, once told McGee and Kate to run up ahead before he opened a car that they knew was rigged with explosives.

"I don't know, McGoo," DiNozzo said thoughtfully as he followed the younger man into the simple room on the oncology floor of National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda. "Just think of everything they have lying around in a hospital. There have to be a thousand drugs that can be injected to cause instant—." His words stopped abruptly as his body stiffened, his eyes rolling to the top of his head, his arms beginning to shake. McGee, his eyes wide with surprise, was about to call for help when he saw the grin beginning to form on DiNozzo's face.

"Not funny, Tony," he scolded as DiNozzo relaxed in a fit of laughter. "Haven't you ever heard of the boy who cried wolf?"

"You should have seen the look on your face, probie," Tony replied, ignoring the second part of McGee's comment. "Come on, let's gather some evidence for Abby so we can get out of here. Hospitals give me the creeps."

A few hours later, McGee arrived in Abby Sciuto's lab, balancing a heavy cardboard box in his arms. "I brought you a present," he said dryly.

"Oh! Forensics evidence, how I've missed you!" Abby crooned as she hopped/ran the few steps from her position to the table where McGee had placed the box. He was going to make fun of her for the words before he realized just how long it had been since they've had a major case. Either criminals in the Navy and Marine Corps knew when Ziva and Tony were otherwise occupied with another mission, or Vance had been dealing cases out to other teams. He hoped for the director's sake that it was the former; he'd hate to imagine Gibbs' reaction if he discovered the latter.

"We gathered the sharps boxes from all of the rooms, just like you asked," McGee continued, unwilling to head back upstairs, where DiNozzo was running a background check on a Navy nurse who had cared for six terminally-ill cancer patients who all died sooner than expected. "We also printed the rooms, which yielded a lot of results. Kinda makes you wonder how often they clean these hospital rooms."

"Which is why I plan on dying quietly at home, already in my coffin," Abby said, not looking up as she sorted the evidence into piles. "Either that or very abruptly in my hearse. I haven't decided for sure yet. Either way, no hospital rooms."

"Not very many people have much of a choice in the matter, Abby," McGee pointed out.

"Hospitals are creepy, McGee." He thought those were ironic words coming from someone who slept in a coffin, but let it go.

"Well, you're not going to have to worry about it for long. They're going to kill you when they see you have this up," McGee commented, studying something Abby had tacked onto the wall. She glanced over to find him facing a still photograph she had printed from the surveillance camera during Tony and Ziva's dinner with the other couples from the synagogue, almost two months before. Ziva had been perched on the armrest of the couch with Tony's arm around her waist as she leaned down to kiss him. The still had been printed from right when their lips met, and although Ziva's hair obscured most of her face, the expression on Tony's was clearly one of a man who was very happy with where he was at the moment.

"I think it's sweet," Abby replied before turning back to her work. "Maybe I'll have it framed and give it to them as a wedding gift."

"Abby, they're not really going to get married. The engagement ring is just for the case. Besides, what about Gibbs' rules about co-workers dating?"

"Oh ye of little faith," she scoffed. "This coming from the guy who said they wouldn't be sleeping together while working undercover. That lasted, what, a day?" It was actually about two weeks, but McGee knew better than to argue with her. "And what is Gibbs going to do, ground them until they agree not to see each other behind the bleachers at lunch anymore? This isn't junior high, McGee. He's not going to interfere with their social lives." The field agent was pretty sure there were other things Gibbs could do—such as reassigning one or both of the agents in question—but again, he knew better than to argue with Abby. "Besides, when are they going to see it? Ziva's _never_ here anymore, and Tony always comes in through my office to get his lunch."

"Yeah, he's probably afraid someone in a ski-mask and chainsaw is waiting for him in the lab entrance," McGee scoffed. Abby turned to him with a stern expression on her face as she pointed a latex-engloved finger in his direction.

"You be nice, Timothy McGee," she scolded. "This is a very stressful time for him. He might have a serial killer coming after him! You should be more supportive."

"Abby, he had me taste-testing his food in case it was poisoned!"

"Well, that wasn't very smart. You could have killed, too. If he really thought it was poisoned, he should have brought it down here. I would have tested it for him."

McGee sighed; there would be no way of explaining to her just how difficult Tony had been to work with in the last week. "Is there anything I can help you with down here?"

She shook her head, her black pig-tails flying. "Nope. I got it. I'll give you a call if something comes up. If you're looking for something to do, you should get back upstairs and find the guy who's trying to kill Tony."

* * *

Ziva David was standing at the stove when she heard the sound of the door opening. "Hello, Tony," she called out. "How was your day?" The thought of asking that question while standing in the kitchen making dinner made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. The last thing she needed was to start thinking of herself as the good little housewife.

DiNozzo, seeing the look on her face and knowing what she was thinking, couldn't help but chuckle as he kissed her on his way through the kitchen. "Fine, dear, and how was yours?" he asked with a grin. The whole conversation reminded him of _The Good Wife's Guide_ from Redbook in the 1950's that they had found working a case a number of years ago. As always when he thought about a case with Kate, he felt that familiar pang of sadness. It had been almost four years, and he no longer felt the grief and anger he did when the loss was new, but he'd probably never get completely over the pain of losing a partner. It was something he hoped he'd never have to repeat.

Ziva gave him a quick glower and pointed her knife at the pile of vegetables on the counter, indicating that she wanted him to cut them up. "We are almost complete with the mid-course evaluations," she informed him. Those evaluations had been keeping her from the office after lectures all week, and he knew she'd be glad when they were behind her. "You are still working a case, no?"

"Yeah," he answered with a nod before briefly describing the case. He couldn't help but think about how much he was enjoying this, coming home to help Ziva with dinner as they talked about their day, bouncing ideas off each other. Of course, all of that would change when the mission was over and they were back to working together and dealing with the strain of being around each other literally all of the time; she would start making sarcastic comments across the bullpen about him leaving the toilet seat up, he would snap at her about the lack of sleep due to her alarm going off at 0500 when he had just returned from a late night at work an hour before. But for now, he could almost convince himself that everything would always be so nice. "So we're pretty sure it was the nurse, Ensign King. She's the only one who was involved in the care of all six patients, but we don't have any concrete evidence yet. We're hoping Abby will find something. We went to Bethesda this afternoon to check out the hospital rooms again." He chuckled. "I have McGee convinced I'm afraid of my own shadow. It's pretty funny, actually."

"So I guess he does not know that you are not driving because your car is in the shop for routine maintenance?"

DiNozzo shook his head with obvious glee. "I still can't believe I convinced him to try my food before I ate it," he mused.

"I still can not believe you let anyone touch your food," Ziva countered. "Has there been any progress on Steiner's surveillance?"

DiNozzo shrugged. "Not that I know of. I'm assuming McGee would have say by now if there was. I think I'm starting to get on his nerves."

Ziva snorted. "As if that were not the intended goal."

* * *

It was Monday before Abby found the empty insulin syringes with Ensign Jessica King's fingerprints on them in each of the sharps containers DiNozzo and McGee had collected—an amazing coincidence, considering none of the six patients was diabetic. While running the background check, DiNozzo had discovered an editorial King had written for her undergraduate newspaper about prolonged suffering of terminally-ill patients. Those two pieces of evidence seemed to be enough to convince a judge to sign an arrest warrant, and McGee headed over to Bethesda to pick up the nurse Tuesday morning. Before Gibbs could even introduce himself as he entered the interrogation room, she cracked, breaking out into sobs as she described how she was just trying to help. Her JAG seemed to think he could get her by with a loss of her nursing license, separation from the Navy, and counseling.

"What do we have from our surveillance of Steiner?" Gibbs asked out of the blue as he and McGee sat at their desks, filling out the after action reports.

"Oh," McGee said guiltily, realizing that with the excitement of the new case, he had been neglecting to check the phone and email taps. When he opened the file on his computer, he discovered that it had been since Wednesday morning that he bothered to check. He tried to remember what he had been doing instead, but nothing came immediately to mind. "Uh, it looks like he had an international call come in late Wednesday morning, from Belgium. Probably something about a diamond order. Then there was a call from a cell phone—let me check the number... Phone's registered to Mrs. Grossman. That was at 1122 on Wednesday. The next call was—"

"Mrs. Grossman?" Gibbs interrupted. McGee glanced up to see his boss focusing in the distance, his mouth set in a frown of concentration. "Do we have audio?"

"Uh, yeah. Let me bring it up." He clicked on something on his computer and leaned over to turn up the volume on his speakers. The voice of the rabbi's wife soon filled the small space.

_"Saul, hello, it's Hedia Grossman. How are you this morning?"_

_"_Rebbetzin," Steiner replied in his raspy voice. _"I am still old, but other than that, have no complaints. What can I do for you?"_

_"Oh, nothing! I was just sitting here and realized that it had been awhile since we've had a chance to chat."_

Steiner's chuckle turned into a wheeze. _"Yes, I believe it has."_

_"I was wondering if you were free this afternoon? We could meet at the coffee shop we usually visit, say, three o'clock?"_

_"The nice thing about growing old, _Rebbetzin_, is that people come and invade your life and try to make things easy for you. I've found that I whenever I want to be free, I am. I will meet you at three."_

McGee closed the audio clip and looked up to see the look in Gibbs' eyes that said his gut was telling him something. "I can bring up that conversation, Boss."

"Damn it," Gibbs muttered under his breath before glancing over at the remaining two desks in the bullpen. Both were empty. "Where the hell is DiNozzo?"

"Oh, sorry, Boss. I forgot to tell you. Ziva called while you were booking Ensign King. Her car had a flat and they decided to take it into the shop in case it was a sign of further tampering. She was going to call for a rental, but wasn't sure what time they'd be getting in." Gibbs didn't say anything else as he went around to his desk and quickly holstered his Sig before heading for the elevators in a rush.

"Are you coming, McGee, or were you going to wait for the funeral?"

"Funeral, Boss? Whose funeral?"

"DiNozzo's, unless you get your ass out of your chair! Now, McGee!"


	40. Chapter 39

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 39**

_A/N: Wow, I didn't expect so much outcry about the fact that there are only a few chapters left. All good things must come to an end, right? To be honest, it's a little bit bittersweet for me-I've loved taking you through this story, and I'll be very sad when that's over, but don't worry, there are more things to come. I already have another story completely written and am working on another, so the NCIS fanfiction will continue._

_In the meantime, back to _this_ story._

* * *

Officer Ziva David gave a long Hebrew curse under her breath at the sight of the deflated driver's side tire. "I don't know what you just said, but it didn't sound very nice," DiNozzo commented as he waited patiently at the passenger side door for her to unlock the car.

"The front tire is flat," she informed him.

"The embassy couldn't get you a car with good tires?"

She bent down to examine the tire. "They are good, Tony. It has been slashed."

He gave a low whistle. "In the best-monitored parking structure in Georgetown? Somebody must have been determined."

"Yes," she replied, pulling out her cell phone. "It could be a sign of further tampering."

He frowned. "That seems a bit risky, to go after your car. Could result in both of our deaths, not just mine."

"So could shooting Lt. Shaw with Lt. Sault in the vehicle, but that did not stop our killer. I will call to have this car towed and get a rental. In the meantime, we should probably wait inside the apartment."

DiNozzo frowned again. "I could just call a cab to take me into NCIS," he suggested. "Gibbs is going to be pissed if I'm not there."

"I am sure he will be more pissed if you are killed because I let you out of my sight," she replied bluntly. "I will call McGee and explain the situation, once we are back in the apartment." Knowing better than to argue, he let it go and followed her to the elevators.

Inside the condo, Ziva called McGee and explained the situation, eliciting a promise that he will tell Gibbs as soon as the supervisory agent was out of interrogation. That completed, they resigned themselves to sitting and waiting for the rental car to arrive.

"Why would he slash the tire?" DiNozzo wondered out loud. "If he did something else to the car, don't you think slashing the tire would make us suspicious? I mean, it _did_ make us suspicious."

"Unless he figured that we would not think a tamperer would also slash a tire."

DiNozzo put his hands on his temples. "Too much reverse psychology makes my head hurt," he moaned.

"Besides, our killer would not know that we are expecting him," Ziva continued to think out loud. "Maybe he is expecting that you will fix the flat tire. It could be rigged to explode."

"The tire?"

"The car," she elaborated.

"Then don't you think we should warn the tow-truck driver?"

"That is not a bad idea." She again pulled out her cell phone and dialed, but when connected, spoke in rapid-fire Hebrew. DiNozzo frowned.

"Wasn't aware there were too many Hebrew-speaking towing companies in DC," he commented after she hung up.

"That was Officer Bashan. It is an embassy car; they will take care of the towing. They will send someone with the tow truck to inspect it first." Seeing the dubious expression on his face, she simply said, "IDF soldiers and Mossad officers know how to check a car for explosives, Tony." He guessed he couldn't argue with that logic.

DiNozzo didn't know how much time had passed since the initial discovery of the slashed front tire, but he did know he was getting bored. Normally, being forced to stay in a confined location with Ziva would draw no complaints from him, but as she was spending her time on the phone—to her co-instructors, the embassy, other people he didn't know—that took away his primary source of entertainment. Television wasn't much help, either. Despite the upgraded satellite package the embassy sprang for, there didn't seem to be much on except soap operas and Price is Right.

Ziva was still on the phone—on the phone again? He didn't know what the proper terminology would be—and DiNozzo was idly playing a tune on the piano when the doorbell rang. Thinking it might finally be the rental car agency, he jumped up from the piano bench, calling out, "I'll get it!" as he headed for the door.

"Ziva?" The voice of Mrs. Grossman floated in from the closed door. "I'm sorry to come by unannounced, but I needed to speak to you."

As soon as she heard those words, time seemed to move in reverse for Officer Ziva David as she remembered bits of conversations over the last ten weeks. Finally, belatedly, the pieces began to fall into place: the military training with the IDF, the work as a pharmacy assistant and later a chemical engineer, the husband's statements about the loss of Jewish culture in America... "Tony!" she called out frantically, running toward her partner. Confused, DiNozzo slowly turned to face her even as he continued to open the door.

She had just reached him when the distinctive sound of gunfire rang through the condominium complex.

* * *

Agent Timothy McGee was rarely one to question his boss, but this time, he was confused. As much as he tried running it through his head, he couldn't figure out for the life of him what had gotten NCIS Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs so wound up.

"Any luck with the phones, McGee?" Gibbs asked tightly as he swerved to barely avoid an oversized pickup truck, a cacophony of horns following them to the far right lane.

"Tony's just rings, and Ziva's directs to voice mail, so she's either on the phone or has it turned off."

"And their position?"

"Uh, I'd need my computer for a GPS fix, boss," McGee answered lamely. "But Ziva said they were waiting in her apartment for the rental car to arrive." Gibbs swore again as he slammed on the brakes, the cars ahead not heeding the flashing red beacon or siren McGee wasn't aware the Charger had. "Uh, Boss? Why are we—"

"It's Mrs. Grossman, McGee," Gibbs interrupted, his eyes still fixed to the road as he added the sound of the horn to the already blaring siren. "I imagine the IDF taught her how to fire a weapon and repair—or disrepair—a vehicle, and anyone with pharmacy training and a bachelor's degree in chemical engineering would know how to poison somebody or cause a 'natural death' in a twenty-six-year-old graduate student."

"And the Grossmans moved to DC from Seattle four years ago," McGee added, remembering their confusion about the murders starting three and a half years before. Gibbs nodded grimly.

"I'm guessing she didn't start here. My gut is telling me that there's a chain of unsolved deaths of future fiancées of Jews that follows the Grossmans everywhere they lived." He clenched his jaw as he swerved around another group of relatively slow-moving vehicles. "I'm thinking the flat tire was to keep Tony and Ziva—or at least Tony—in the apartment so she could finish him off."

"So she's been using Steiner for information," McGee mused, finally able to connect the phone call from the rabbi's wife to the old jeweler. Gibbs nodded again.

"She couldn't have found a better source," he said bitterly. "A gossipy old man with a reputation for being the best designer of custom-made engagement rings in the Jewish community. He would unknowingly give her the targets, and all she had to do was kill them." McGee shuddered at the thought, and the realization that they had unknowingly made DiNozzo the perfect target. For the first time ever, he suddenly wished Gibbs would drive faster.

* * *

Tony DiNozzo caught just the briefest glance at Hedia Grossman's dark eyes flashing with anger and maybe a touch of mania before everything faded to black. "Tony!" he heard Ziva cry out frantically again, just as he heard Mrs. Grossman's rapid footsteps sprinting down the hallway.

"Tony!" Ziva repeated, and slowly, his vision began to refocus. Just as her concerned face came into view, his mind finally registered the burst of pain in his left arm. He gasped in agony and fought to keep his vision from blurring again. "Tony, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," he managed. He tried to give her an encouraging smile, but knew that he failed miserably. "Go after her," he finally said.

"Are you okay?" she asked, not moving from where she was crouched in front of him, her hands tightly clasped around his left arm, just above the elbow. He managed a nod that time.

"Tis but a flesh wound," he joked, but it fell flat. He figured she wasn't much of a _Monty Python_ fan; besides, he'd need to be missing at least one limb for that to be funny, and as far as he knew, his arm was still present. Perforated, now, but still present.

"Take off your belt," Ziva commanded. Again, DiNozzo managed a weak smile.

"I know I'm not normally one to turn down sex, but I don't think this is the right time for that."

"You have lost a lot of blood," she said, ignoring his comment. "You need a tourniquet."

"I'll do it," he said stubbornly, using his one remaining hand to unclasp the buckle. He managed to look her directly in the eye. "Go get her."

She nodded and kissed him hard before straightened to a standing position, turning toward the door. She turned back and glanced down at him, sitting on the floor of the entry way in a puddle of his own blood. "I love you, Tony," she said simply. With that, she drew her Sig and ran from the apartment.

* * *

McGee barely registered the sudden exodus of several of the building's residents as they pulled to a screeching halt in front of Ziva's condominium complex. "Someone has a gun! Someone has a gun!" a rather hysterical middle-aged woman was screaming. McGee guessed that that was why so many people were running from the building.

Knowing that the elevators would be crowded with the excitement and hoping that they weren't too late, Agents Gibbs and McGee ran up the fifteen flights of stairs toward number 1502, relying on training and no small amount of adrenaline to make their way up without collapsing in exhaustion. "Federal agents!" McGee wheezed ineffectually as they made their way down the hallway, guns already drawn. They arrived at Ziva's door to find it hanging open, a wounded federal agent just inside.

"Took you guys long enough," DiNozzo joked with a wince from his position on the floor, his belt tied around his left upper arm, his right hand clenched just above the elbow. "It was Mrs. Grossman, Boss."

"We know," Gibbs replied grimly. "Have you called for an ambulance yet?"

DiNozzo shook his head. "Phone's upstairs on the nightstand," he admitted.

"McGee," Gibbs commanded.

"Already on it, Boss," the junior agent replied, his phone to his ear. Gibbs turned back to DiNozzo.

"Where's Ziva?" he asked, sudden concern in his eyes.

"She went after the good _Rebbetzin_," DiNozzo replied, wincing with another wave of pain.

"Which way?"

DiNozzo looked at him as if that were the stupidest question in the world; in a way, it was. "We're on the fifteenth floor of the building, Boss. All I can tell you is that she went that way down the hall."

"McGee, stay with him until the ambulance arrives." Gibbs glanced down at his wounded agent before lightly smacking him in the back of the head.

"Come on, Boss! I already have a bullet hole in my arm. Are you trying to add brain damage to the list?"

"Rule number three, DiNozzo: never be unreachable." And with that, he took off in search of his Mossad liaison and the gun-wielding wife of a rabbi.


	41. Chapter 40

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Chapter 40**

_A/N: So I'm a bit bummed that we didn't have a new NCIS last night, but a little happy that it was an ep from early in season 6, when Tony and Ziva actually acknowledged each other's presence, much less flirted with each other (in case you can't tell, I'm a bit frustrated with the more recent episodes). But that's not important, because in my world, they not only flirt, but they cook together and sleep together and chase serial killers together... And now back to the chase._

* * *

Hedia Grossman had a three-minute head-start, but the Mossad officer tailing her was almost fifteen years younger and ran at least six miles every morning. Of course, if Ziva's quick glance through the half-opened apartment door was correct, the rabbi's wife was wearing an athletic suit and tennis shoes, whereas Ziva David was wearing the full service uniform of an IDF major, complete with the heeled shoes that were perfectly sensible when walking, but left a lot to be desired as a running shoe. _Whoever decided that women need to wear heels with their uniforms was an idiot,_ Ziva thought angrily. _Military uniforms and heels do not go well together_.

After running down the hallway, Ziva guessed correctly that Mrs. Grossman would choose the stairs, not wanting to risk being caught in the confines of an elevator while escaping the scene of a crime. As she entered the stairwell, the Mossad liaison heard the sound of the outside door opening and stepped up her already furious pace. Unfortunately, one could only descend a flight of stairs so quickly without causing debilitating damage to the legs or feet, and by the time she arrived at that door, the rabbi's wife was nowhere to be found.

The stairwell opened up to an alley; turn to the right after leaving the building, and you were faced with a dumpster and a chainlink fence complete with a strand of barbed wire. Turn to the left, and you saw another dumpster, a fire escape ladder, and further down, the light of a connecting road. Ziva turned to the left and ran for the road.

Just as she emerged from the alley, she caught the fleeting image of _Rebbetzin_ Grossman ducking into a building about two blocks away, and thanked whatever god was watching over Mossad officers and their trouble-seeking NCIS partners that this particular serial killer had chosen to wear a red windbreaker; it was fairly easy to spot, even from a distance.

The building Mrs. Grossman had entered was a stereotypical office building, with different businesses occupying each of the twelve floors. Ziva quickly scanned the names on the board at the entryway, looking for a Jewish-sounding name that the rabbi's wife might seek asylum from, but nothing jumped out at her. Just as she resigned herself to searching each of the twelve floors one at a time, she caught sight of another exterior door directly across the foyer, and realized that her target had just used the building to pass through to a parallel alley. Her spirits bouyed, she ran for the door.

Because of the way the door swung open, she scanned her visual field to the right first, her gun in perfect alignment with her eyes. Not seeing anything, she stepped all the way out of the building and began her sweep to the left, finding herself face-to-face with a red-jacketed rabbi's wife holding a twenty-two in the ready position. Although many would scoff at such a small gun, Ziva knew better—the bullets may be small, but the gun didn't have much of a kick. In trained hands, it could deliver a lethal series of bullets without much difficulty, and Ziva had no doubt that the hands that currently held the weapon were very well trained. "Drop your weapon, _Rebbetzin_," she ordered, her voice low.

Mrs. Grossman gave her a wicked smile that was completely without mirth. "Or what, Major? You'll shoot a rabbi's wife? I'm sure the Metro PD would love that—a foreign military officer shooting away at the leaders of the local religious community."

"I believe you are forgetting that I have diplomatic immunity," Ziva replied. That was a lie, but she was hoping Hedia Grossman wouldn't know that. "And considering that you just shot a federal agent, I am sure that they will understand why I did it."

Ziva didn't think it was possible, but the smile turned even darker. "You may be upset now, Ziva, but someday, you will thank me for what I did for you." As she picked up tempo and volume, hints of her previous Israeli accent emerged. "Now that you no longer have your Gentile to distract you, you can go back to Israel and meet a nice Jewish man."

The Mossad officer adjusted the gun subtly in her hand. "Like Dr. Silvers?" she asked.

"Exactly!" Mrs. Grossman seemed pleased that Ziva was following her line of thought. "He still writes to me, you know. He mourned for awhile, but eventually, he began to move on. He's told me many times how happy he is with Avi. He never seemed so happy with Stephanie."

"And Lt. Hannah Sault?" Ziva asked, taking a small step closer. Mrs. Grossman didn't seem to notice. "Do you think she is happy?"

"She will be," the rabbi's wife said confidently. "Someday, when she is standing at the alter and her father is officiating her wedding ceremony in Hebrew, she will realize how fortunate she is."

"So you did this to help them?"

"Exactly! To help them and to help Jewish people everywhere. Our culture is at risk of dying completely, Ziva. You may not see it so clearly in Israel, but the signs are everywhere here. People are starting to think that it is acceptable to marry outside their faith, and rabbis are even beginning to allow it! It is written clearly in Exodus that fathers have no right to give their children in marriage to foreigners, to anyone outside the nation of Israel. Because people are not heeding this command, children are being raised in homes that are not governed by Jewish laws. They are not keeping kosher with their meals or keeping the Sabbath holy. In another generation or two, there will be nobody left to sit in the synagogues on Saturdays."

Ziva seriously doubted that, but didn't say anything as she moved another step closer. Again, the motion seemed to go by unnoticed. "And that gives you the right to take a life?" she asked, "to violate what is most sacred?"

"What I do is for the good of the Jewish people. God understands that, and is most pleased with what I have done."

_Clearly someone has delusions of grandeur_, Ziva thought to herself as she again inched forward. "You made a mistake, though," she finally said.

"I have made no mistakes," Mrs. Grossman declared. "God is pleased with my work."

Ziva shook her head, using that movement to disguise another step forward. "But you did," she mocked. "That federal agent you shot? You missed. You did not kill him. It looks like you did not do me any favors after all." Mrs. Grossman was shocked by the words, which gave Ziva the opportunity she was looking for. With one smooth motion, she lunged forward, tackling the middle-aged woman to ground. In the commotion, the small twenty-two was fired, the shot going somewhere into the building behind them. "Hedia Grossman, you are under arrest for the murders of Lt. Christopher Shaw, Dr. Stephanie Quinn, Manar al-Bashier, Scott Daltron, and Jonathan Wallace, and the attempted murder of NCIS Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo." She didn't wear any handcuffs with her IDF uniform, but she always kept a few plastic wrist restraints in her back pocket just in case, one of which she tightened around Mrs. Grossman's wrists before pulling her back to her feet. They slowly made their way to the main road, a defeated-looking woman past her prime being moved along by a scuffed-up foreign military officer.

Agent Gibbs heard the gunshot and headed in the general direction; seeing Ziva and the restrained suspect, he put his gun away and gave his liaison a tight smile. "It is about time you showed up," Ziva commented, unknowingly echoing DiNozzo's words. "I am beginning to think I have to do all the hard work myself."

"Would have been here sooner if you had your phone with you."

"I was chasing an armed suspect who had just shot a federal agent, Gibbs." He grinned as he grabbed one of Mrs. Grossman's elbows to help walk her to the car.

"Good work, Officer David."

"Officer David?" Hedia Grossman echoed weakly. "I thought your name was Ziva Kenig."

"No," Ziva said bluntly. "Mossad Officer Ziva David, liaison officer to NCIS. Next time you decide to gun down couples on major interstates, you should be more selective about your targets."

Mrs. Grossman's face grew red with anger. "You lied to me!" she exclaimed. "You stood in the house of God and lied before a rabbi and his wife!" She stomped her foot down over Ziva's ankle just as the Mossad officer was stepping from the curb. It was a lucky shot from Grossman's point of view; not so lucky for Ziva. Gibbs flinched as he heard the popping sound that was most likely a bone cracking.

"You _bitch_!" Ziva spat, her eyes squeezed tightly closed in pain. With only a few steps to the car, she forced herself to continue walking, pushing down on Grossman and all but using her as a crutch. Despite the serious of the moment, Gibbs couldn't help but smile.

"You're swearing in English now," he commented. "DiNozzo would be proud of you."

At the mention of her partner, Ziva's eyes flew open, her pain momentarily forgotten. "Tony," she said softly. "How is he?" As if in response, they heard the wail of an ambulance speeding away. In the excitement of the chase, Ziva hadn't heard it as it approached.

"I'm guessing on his way to the hospital right now," Gibbs answered unnecessarily. "He was cracking jokes and ordering McGee around, so I'm sorry to say, you'll still have the same old DiNozzo for at least another day."

There was no way to miss the smile on her face when he gave her that news.


	42. Conclusion Part 1

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Conclusion, Part I**

_A/N: Yes, that's right--conclusion, part 1. Meaning there will be a part 2. I was going to post it as one chapter, but then it would be really long chapter. And this way I get to grant all of your wishes to keep the story coming. Kinda._

* * *

Tony DiNozzo had spent enough time in emergency departments of various hospitals to know the routine: if the injury was bad enough—and he thought having a bullet hole all the way through his arm might qualify—the patient was taken directly to the trauma bay, where a swarm of technicians, nurses, and medical students all shouted frantic orders over the patients head. Then the doctors would make an appearance, and they would _(hopefully)_ order some pain medicine, and _(hopefully not)_ poke and prod at the injury before straightening and declaring that the patient needed x-rays _(as if that weren't obvious)_ and a specialist.

In this case, the specialist was a tiny Asian girl--woman, he supposed, although she looked _really_ young--a second-year orthopedic surgery resident from across town at Walter Reed Army Medical Center _("We're a fairly well-integrated Army-Navy residency program, Agent DiNozzo. But we Army docs are better.")_ who introduced herself as Captain Emily Shin. She barely looked strong enough to lift a scalpel, much less do some of the bone-breaking surgeries orthopedists were famous for, but she handled his arm with surprising ease as she positioned the dead-weight (the local anesthetic she gave was truly amazing) above a stainless-steel basin and got to work.

"We have a lot of practice with bullet holes, unfortunately," she was saying, her head still bent over his arm. "Most of the Iraq and Afghanistan MEDEVACs come in to either here or WRAMC," she pronounced her hospital _ram-see_, and it took DiNozzo a minute to realize that she was referring to Walter Reed. "You're in much better shape than most of them, though. Small bullet, looks like a twenty-two caliber, went clean through. It missed your brachial artery—the big artery in your arm—but it looks like it got your vein. That's not as big of a deal. Perforated the belly of the biceps muscle in the front and the triceps tendon in the back, so you'll probably be in physical therapy for awhile but should regain complete use of those muscles. Don't worry, we have a good physical medicine and rehab program here, although the Army one is better." He hoped that was just hospital pride speaking and not a fact. "Looking at your x-ray, it looks like the bullet grazed your humerus, so we'll have to treat this as an open fracture due to your risk of infection."

"So, surgery?"

She nodded. "But not tonight. We still have a few cases scheduled for the OR, and this isn't critical. A day isn't going to make any difference—most of our bullet wounds come in from theater, so they wait a couple of days before getting operated on. We'll probably just do an exploration of the wound under anesthesia and repair that vein, check for nerve damage, that sort of thing. We'll get you checked into the hospital for the night—"

"If I'm not going to have surgery until tomorrow, can't I go home?"

"Don't argue with the doctors, DiNozzo." The agent snapped his head up toward the doors to the trauma bay and grinned at the man standing there.

"Hey, Boss," he greeted. He put on a pleading expression. "You gotta help me out here. You know how I feel about spending the night in a hospital."

"Having you come back in the morning shouldn't be a problem, Agent DiNozzo," Dr. Shin interjected as she rose from the wheeled stool she was sitting on. "Just let me talk to my chief and draw up your discharge papers. We'll send you home with some antibiotics and a reminder not to eat or drink anything after midnight and to come back two hours before your surgery is scheduled to start." She snapped off her latex gloves as she made her exit.

"Wow," DiNozzo commented, impressed. "That was the easiest argument I've ever had with a doctor. So, did you get Mrs. Grossman?" His expression changed slightly. "And no offense, Boss, it's always great to see you, but I was hoping that Ziva—"

"Mrs. Grossman is back at NCIS. She's been booked on six counts of murder and one count of attempted murder."

DiNozzo mentally counted the cases in his head and frowned. "Six?" Gibbs shrugged.

"She confessed to one we didn't know about."

"So you broke her in interrogation?"

Gibbs took a sip of the coffee cup stamped with the logo of his favorite chain; DiNozzo had no idea how the man always managed to find 'his' coffee. "I wouldn't say 'broke'," he finally said. "She confessed everything without any sort of prompting. Seemed rather proud of herself, actually. Thought she was saving the Jewish people or some such thing." Another sip of coffee. "I have McGee back at the office informing the FBI of the case. I'm sure they're going to find unsolved deaths of many more non-Jews dating Jews in Seattle, LA, and Miami."

"Everywhere Grossman has lived since she moved to the States."

Gibbs nodded. "Apparently, Rabbi Grossman once seriously dated a non-Jewish girl before he joined the rabbinate and got married. She wouldn't convert, they broke up, and Grossman made his way to Israel and met his wife. I don't know if being a rabbi's second choice was what set her off or not. To be honest, I don't care."

"Her lawyer trying to get her an insanity plea?"

"He'd be an idiot if he didn't," Gibbs scoffed. "She thought God was telling her to kill people and that He was pleased with her actions. Doesn't sound like the reasoning of a sane woman to me."

DiNozzo nodded before his mind wandered back to who _wasn't_ there. "Where's Ziva?" he asked again. Gibbs took another sip of coffee.

"Mrs. Grossman got a lucky kick in after Ziva arrested her. Broke her fibula." At DiNozzo's blank look, he explained, "The small bone on the outside of the leg."

"She broke her _leg_?"

"More of her ankle, really. The doctors say she'll be fine. Six weeks in a fracture boot and she'll be back to leaving your ass in the dust during your morning runs in no time."

"I should go see her," DiNozzo said, struggling to stand. Gibbs' hand stopped him.

"Not so fast, DiNozzo. You still need to wait for the doctor to come back, remember? Besides, I'm not through talking to you."

"The rules?" DiNozzo guessed.

"Depends," Gibbs replied. "Is this going to be an on-going thing?"

DiNozzo narrowed his eyes as he tried to figure out what Gibbs was asking. "Yeah," he finally replied. "At least, I assume so. I hope so. She snores like a lumberjack with emphysema and hogs the covers and kicks in her sleep, and she has these nightmares that she doesn't think I know about, and her damned alarm never fails to go off at 0500, but I always sleep better when she's there. I'd do anything for her, Boss. Hell, I've already been to the synagogue more times than anything resembling a Catholic church. I've learned how to put a _kippah_ on my head and keep it there for a few hours, I think I'm up to ten phrases of Hebrew by now. I can stop eating shellfish and sausage and pepperoni pizza—." He cut himself off when he realized that he was speaking truthfully; he _would_ give up pepperoni pizza if Ziva required him to. He'd even give up Saturday college football games, as long as he could record them and watch them on Sundays—

"I don't think she needs any of that," Gibbs said, interrupting his musings with the slight smile of a man who seen it all before and maybe lived it once or twice. "There's only one thing that matters, DiNozzo: do you love her?"

The question stopped DiNozzo in his tracks, because it was he one question he had been trying not to think about for the last several weeks. Did he love her? He had once loved Jeanne, he could never deny that. If it were a perfect world, one in which he really was Tony DiNardo and really was a professor of film studies and Rene Benoit hadn't been an international arms dealer followed by NCIS, she would have been the type of woman he could see himself marrying and moving into the suburbs with, where they would have their white picket fence and raise their two children and a dog. But that wasn't the real world, and Jeanne would never have been able to understand who he really was and why he had done what he had. Ziva, on the other hand...Ziva and Jeanne couldn't be more different. While Jeanne had been laboriously studying to become a doctor, Ziva was traveling the world killing terrorists. She was blunt and sometimes crude and got that twinkle in her eye when she was thinking something mischievous. She wasn't afraid to speak her mind about anything, and they fought about everything, from what to have for dinner to what movie to watch to how to load the dishwasher, but he would much rather have her there fighting with him than anywhere else leaving him in peace. "Yeah, Boss," he finally said. "I love her."

Gibbs nodded slowly as Dr. Shin returned with DiNozzo's discharge papers and waited patiently for the doctor to explain them in great detail. After the surgeon had left, he finally said, "Just keep it out of the office. The last thing I need to be hearing while I'm at my desk is what you two did in bed the night before." DiNozzo knew he was smiling like an idiot as he followed his boss out of the trauma bay, but he didn't care.


	43. Conclusion Part 2

**Of Jews and Gentiles: Conclusion, Part II**

_A/N: The moment we've all been waiting for/dreading: the last chapter of OJ&G. I can't believe it actually happened. I'm quite sad, to be honest. I've really enjoyed going on this journey with you. And I've really enjoyed the 20+ emails about reviews every day. I have my email forwarded to my phone, so checking reviews throughout the day is a constant source of entertainment (but I have to be careful... my resident caught me when I was chuckling about something someone wrote the other day. Not exactly ideal behavior from a med student). But anyway, there is good news! There are other stories. The next one, Lethal Fractures, is technically a sequel to my earlier fic, Deep Lacerations, but it fits in with the timeline from OJ&G as well, so you can think of it as a sequel to this one, if you want._

_And, if you want to read some original fiction I've come up with, there's a link to my fictionpress account in my profile. Please, check it out. It's odd to be posting a story and not getting 20+ reviews a day. And yes, I am advertising for myself again._

_Okay, enough of that. Onto the conclusion, part 2. _

* * *

Officer Ziva David was bored. Now that the excitement of the case and Gibbs' hurried drive to the emergency department were over, she found herself longing for something to do. He had practically pushed her out the door when they arrived at Bethesda and told her to check herself in while he took the rabbi's wife on to NCIS. It had taken the better part of an hour before the petty officer had escorted her to radiology and then to her "room", which was really a curtained off area in the corner. A nurse had come in to take her vital signs and brought the x-ray up on a nearby computer monitor, muttering something about the doctor being in shortly before she wandered off again, leaving Ziva to her boredom. She was tempted to go out to the main area to see if she could track down a doctor herself, but judging by the thin line that ran through the thin bone along her ankle—she had gotten up to study it to see if she could find a fracture, and sure enough, she could—she wouldn't get far. So she waited.

It had been almost another hour before the doctor finally arrived. "I thought that would be you," a familiar-looking man said with a grin as he walked through the curtain. "I saw your name on the computer and grabbed your case. I'm betting I won't get the opportunity to treat many NCIS agents." His grin widened slightly. "At least, I hope not, seeing as I'm actually a psychiatry intern doing an ER rotation."

"Ensign Sault," Ziva said in surprise as she finally realized why he was familiar. "I did not realize you had started already."

"It's 'Lieutenant' or 'Doctor' now, actually," Dr. Jacob Sault corrected. "Apparently, Ohio State has decided I've learned everything I can from them and they gave me a degree and a set of railroad tracks," referring to his silver rank bars, which he wasn't wearing with his scrubs, "and sent me on my way. And to be honest, it's only my third day."

"Congratulations," Ziva replied, still somewhat surprised.

"Thanks. Anyway, I checked your x-ray out at the nurses' station—"

"She going to be able to walk again?" a third voice asked from the curtained doorway. Ziva glanced up and gave her boss a thin smile. Dr. Sault smiled encouragingly.

"It's just a fibular fracture, you won't even need a cast or crutches. I'll send in one of our ortho techs to have you fitted for a fracture boot. You should wear it all the time, except for the shower, for about two weeks, then just when you're on your feet for another four. I'll set up your follow-up with one of our orthopods as well."

"Thank you, Doctor," Ziva said. Sault smiled again before a slightly hesitant expression appeared on his face.

"I know this isn't the best time to ask, but I was wondering if you were any closer to figuring out who—"

"We just arrested her," Ziva interrupted. "It was _Rebbetzin_ Grossman. She had killed several others as well and shot my partner." She turned back to Gibbs. "Tony?" she asked quietly.

"The GSW—gun shot wound?" Sault answered for him. "He's fine. One of my fellow interns said he's awake and complaining about how much it hurts." He gave her another encouraging smile before he ducked out to put in her orders.

She smiled slightly at the news and appeared to be ready to say something to Gibbs when there was a knock at the wall beside her curtain. Without waiting for a response, Officer Michael Bashan entered the small space. "I am glad to see you awake and well, Officer David," he said with a nod.

"Thank you, Officer Bashan," she replied, wondering why he was there. He answered her unspoken question.

"We have finished our search of the BMW. It was clean from explosives and tampering." He hesitated slightly, then continued. "I will be honest with you. I have been in contact with Director David since this mission has begun. He has taken an interest in this case for reasons he would not fully explain, other than his daughter's involvement. I have told him that you suffered minor injuries today, and he wishes your rapid recovery. He also asked me to pass along a message that he will be in Austria in three weeks time and was wondering if you would like to join him."

"I will see him," Ziva replied automatically, "but it will not be in Austria." Her voice was unintentionally harsh, and she forced herself to calm down when she remembered that she was the only one in the room—and one of only three or four people in the world—who knew what the Mossad director would be doing in Austria. "Tell him I will make a trip to Tel Aviv instead."

"I will tell him," Bashan said with a nod.

"No," Ziva said, changing her mind. "I will do it."

"Very well. Will this be while you are convalescing?"

She glanced over at Gibbs before returning her attention to the older Mossad officer. "Actually, I was considering that since I will not be able to return to field work for at least another six weeks, that I could finish teaching my course." Her eyes returned to Gibbs and she gave a small shrug. "I have spent enough time going over cold cases with Tony for awhile."

He chuckled slightly and nodded. "I don't think NCIS will have a problem with that."

"I will make arrangements," Bashan promised with a single nod. "However, we will need the car and condominium returned to us."

"You already have the car," Ziva reminded him. "And it should not take long to clean out the condo. We will get keys to you by Friday, yes?"

"Very well. _Shalom_, Officer David."

"_Shalom_." As quietly as he had approached, the senior Mossad officer left.

"McGee's already asked if he can come visit," Gibbs informed Ziva, filling the silence of the room. "He should be done with Mrs. Grossman soon."

"I will be fine alone, Gibbs," Ziva said with a small smile. "You can go check on Tony. I will still be here when you return. I have a broken leg; it would be hard for me to leave unnoticed." She leaned back into the bed, seeming content with that decision. Gibbs nodded as he ducked out of the room.

* * *

Gibbs had muttered something about "bay three" before he vanished from sight, likely to find more coffee, leaving his senior field agent to attempt to navigate the large emergency department alone, his arm fixed in a hard plastic cast and sling. He figured he was headed in the right direction when he heard a familiar female laugh, following by a long string of words in Hebrew.

He pulled aside the curtain to bay three to see his partner sitting on the edge of her bed, her right foot tucked beneath her and her left leg, clad in an impressive boot of hard plastic and black nylon straps, hanging down toward the floor. Her IDF uniform jacket and blouse had been tossed aside at some point, leaving her in the dark blue slacks and white tank-top, the long braid that he had watched her pull her hair into that morning abandoned in favor of a simple ponytail.

Leaning in a corner formed by the sink and the wall was a man in scrubs who looked like he should have been familiar, but DiNozzo couldn't quite place where he would have known him from. Seeing the smiles on the faces of both his partner and the unknown man—doctor?—DiNozzo felt an unjustified surge of jealousy. Now that the mission was over, he didn't know if he had a right to feel jealous. "Hi," he finally said.

"Hi," Ziva replied. They both continued to stare at each other warily, not sure of what to say. "I see your doctors have finally let you out of their sights?"

"Yeah," he answered with a nod. His eyes went over to the man by the wall. "I see yours hasn't."

"Oh," Ziva said, as if forgetting that he had been standing there. "This is Lt. Jacob Sault. Doctor, my partner, Tony DiNozzo."

As soon as she said the name, he realized why the man looked familiar; not only had DiNozzo seen his personnel file almost three months before, but he looked strikingly like his younger sister. "I see you got promoted," DiNozzo commented, extending his right arm. Sault grinned.

"After four years as an ensign, it was about damned time," he joked. He snapped his fingers as he suddenly remembered something. "You wouldn't be the Buckeye fan, would you?"

DiNozzo brightened, remembering that Sault had just graduated from Ohio State's medical school. "I've been told on more than one occasion that I bleed scarlet and gray," he joked. "I heard you had the privilege of actually watching the Penn State tragedy up close."

Sault grimaced. "I thought we had them for awhile, but we just died in the end." Both men shook their heads sadly, while Ziva gave a long-suffering sigh. She found herself wondering if she would be listening to comments about Ohio State football for the rest of her life, then felt her cheeks flush slightly at the unintentional thought, not knowing if she had any right to be thinking it. "But anyway, Officer David was telling me that you guys caught Chris' killer, so, thank you."

"Well, it was more Ziva than me. I mostly sat on the floor bleeding," DiNozzo joked. "But if I were you, I'd avoid the couple's classes at the Georgetown synagogue."

Sault laughed slightly as he shook his head. "Well, no worries there. I'm happily engaged to an equally non-observant Jew. Chris' death taught me that when you want something, there's no use waiting. We just set a date for February. She's starting her pediatrics residency at Johns Hopkins, so as soon as Hannah's lease is up, we're going to be buying a place somewhere about halfway between here and Baltimore. Not that I'll be spending much time in synagogues anyway, but I won't even be in the area of that synagogue."

"How is Hannah?" Ziva asked.

"Better," Dr. Sault said with a nod. "She's doing well at her new position in Norfolk, where she actually gets to use her oceanography degree. She says she still doesn't have any interest in dating anyone just yet, but it hasn't even been three months. Nobody's trying to rush her into anything." They lapsed into the slightly uncomfortable silence of three people who didn't have very much in common before Sault spoke again. "Well, I should probably get back to work. Ziva, your follow-up appointments have already been made and they're in your discharge summary," he nodded toward a small pile of papers near the head of the bed, "and you can pick up your prescriptions at the pharmacy here. It was good to see you—both of you—again, and thanks again for putting _Rebbetzin_ Grossman behind bars." He smiled again as he headed for the curtain.

"Oh, Doc," DiNozzo said before he could walk away. "I know of some great Buckeye bars in the area, if you're looking for a place to watch the games in a couple of months. Not that you would ever watch football on a Saturday, of course."

Sault grinned and nodded. "Thanks. I'll drop you an email or give you a call closer to the season starting." He ducked through the curtain, leaving Tony and Ziva alone for the first time that day since Mrs. Grossman burst through her apartment door with guns blazing.

"Apparently I'm not going to die in the next twenty-four hours, because the doctors have released me until my surgery tomorrow," DiNozzo finally said after a few moments of silence. "So since we've both been discharged, I think it's time to blow this popsicle stand and go home."

She frowned slightly, but he didn't know if it was at 'blow this popsicle stand' or 'go home'. "Whose home, Tony? Yours, or mine?"

He shook his head slowly, still not sure exactly what she thought of their relationship. Sure, there were those words she said before she chased after Mrs. Grossman, but that could have just been a heat-of-the-moment, he-might-be-dying reaction. In the aftermath, with both realizing that they have lived through yet another death-defying moment and realizing that their lives would changing yet again, she might be seeing things differently. He wasn't going to let her go that easily. "I don't care which apartment we go to, Ziva, just as long as we go there together."

Her smile was answer enough for him.


End file.
